


Those Who Wander

by mangoleaf2001



Series: Lost Souls [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Denethor's A+ Parenting, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Faramir is in the fellowship, Fellowship of the Ring, Fluff, Humor, LOTR books and movies are not a thing in OC's world, Middle Earth, Modern Character in Middle Earth, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, OC's powers are explained, Romance, Semi-realistic take on modern OC in ME, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Special Abilities, Warnings May Change, We need more good Faramir fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29044086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangoleaf2001/pseuds/mangoleaf2001
Summary: Jude Taylor has had odd dreams for as long as she can remember, now it seems that she has been thrust into one of them. With an uncanny ability to see pieces of the future, as well as a new set of pointy ears, Jude sets off to accompany this odd fellowship on their quest to destroy the ring and find her way back home. However, as she learns more about her powers and dreams, Jude will have to question the very foundation of her existence and test the bonds of friendship and love.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Faramir (Son of Denethor II)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Lost Souls [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2130783
Comments: 14
Kudos: 23





	1. So it Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my take on the popular girl falls into ME trop. I'm trying to make it a little more believable in that our OC won't immediately take up with the fellowship, so the first few chapters might be a bit slow but after that it will pick up. I promise there is an explanation that comes later as to why Jude can understand Westron and what her dreams mean (its not just a Mary Sue having special powers). However, this work does stray from the canon slightly and I like to have fun with some elements of the story so try not to take it too seriously. 
> 
> It's rated mature for scenes of violence and there may be some sexual content in the future. 
> 
> One last note is that LOTR books and movies do not exist in my OC's universe. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please let me know in the comments if you would be interested in more, so far I'm planning to make this a long one.

If I were to speak about Jude Taylor, what should I say? There are some things about her that are ordinary. She was born in 1988, her favorite color is blue, she has freckles on her knees and loves making jam from scratch. She was once human and almost completely normal; in the broadest sense of the term. However, dear reader, if one were to look a little closer they would discover some traits that were less than ordinary. For instance, as long as Jude has been able to form memories, she has had dreams of the most extraordinary nature. 

You don’t believe me?

At the age of ten, after finishing a large bowl of strawberry ice cream (her favorite) she fell listlessly asleep by the TV and dreamt of four short and funny looking men. They wandered with her across fields and mountains larger than she had ever seen, sometimes turning directly to talk to her in a muffled tone.

At twelve, after finishing a late-night piano recital and falling asleep on the train, she dreamt of a fallen man, his chest pierced by arrows. Jude could feel the terror clawing inside her. She knew this man; he was important to her in some way she could not explain. She was angry at this man; he had wronged her and those she loved. Her anger would always fade to horror and grief as he died in her arms. He died again and again in her dreams.

Soon, Jude began to recognize each figure she saw. Instead of foreign faces and situations, she stitched the mangled pieces together to form an odd tapestry, a tale that seemed far too vivid to be a simple childhood fantasy. She began to recognize certain threads as important. The ring, the blazing eye, and those nine companions each became etched in her mind till she knew their likenesses as well as her own. Jude invented names for them, it was her own secret game. 

There was also _that_ dream, the one that visited and lingered with her the longest. There were no little men or elves in this dream. It was simply Jude and it. 

_The thing rises from mountains of rubble and slain men to meet her. It is larger than any creature she has seen, with a scaled tail and great, lashing whip. The worst part is its head, crowned with curving horns that end at a throat, opening to reveal a fiery maw of rage. She is terrified, yet knows that she possesses strength as well. Her armored hands tightly grip a longsword as she feels an odd, icy determination wash over her. She turns only once to look back at those fleeing around her, recognizing some. These are people she knows and loves, she’s shared songs and meals with many. They are her kinsmen and she will die to protect them if she must. Its whip lashes and curls at her as she expertly tumbles from each blow, occasionally meeting its fiery lash directly with her sword and feeling the shock reverberate through her body. In the end, it always catches her, its flaming whip burning flesh and carrying her into the depths below. However, with the last of her strength her sword finds the soft underbelly and she sends it from the terror of reality into the songs of memory. She dies peacefully and well._

Intense, right? 

As she grew older and more aware, I am sad to say that Jude became a little too caught up in finding out what those dreams meant, _that_ one in particular. Friends found her difficult to reach, she was always distracted and dazed, as if she didn’t quite belong. She visited each prop up Psychic shop she encountered, dug through old histories and myths to find those familiar faces and even considered hypnosis at one desperate point. The answers never came and she eventually devised a comforting lie for herself, explaining away the oddity as the vestiges of an overactive childhood imagination. This lie worked for a while, until the accident.

Remember that I am speaking of Jude, who is prone to imagination and distraction and who should have looked both ways before crossing the street as she exited a rare histories bookstore. She doesn't feel the pain of the hit or even the realize what has happened, all she sees is great blinding light, one that destroys her familiar world and changes everything.


	2. We're Not in Kansas Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude wakes up and begins to realize some things are very strange...

The first thing that I am aware of is the light, it blinds my senses and sends me flailing onto the ground. I am suddenly gasping for air, my chest aching and empty as if I’ve been underwater. I struggle to open my eyes and sit up. Instead of the white light that had flooded my senses moments ago, I am greeted by a dim, misty air which filters through the numerous, thick trees that surround me. I’m in a forest of sorts, and those gnarled, old trees stretch as far as I can make out. 

This doesn’t make any sense; last I was aware I was crossing the street while some idiot barreled at me in their Chevy. _Shit_. I better not be dead, if this is the afterlife I’m in serious trouble. For one thing, God and I aren’t really on the best of terms. For another, I’m pretty sure I’ve committed a few of the deadly sins during my twenty-five years of life, gluttony and slothfulness in particular. 

But wouldn’t heaven (or hell for that matter) be less chilly? The air around me is damp and I can feel my skin beginning to goosebump. Scanning the mossy undergrowth that surrounds me, I don’t see any demons with pitchforks advancing or any old men with snowy white beards ready to give lectures. This all seems far too life-like to be some version of the afterlife. Glancing ahead to where a stream seems to wind among the trees, I make the decision to start walking. I can’t explain what’s happened to me, but somebody nearby should have answers. 

I start advancing a few steps before my legs wobble and give out. I hit the edge of a root with a hard thwack that pulses through my right calf. “Dammit,” I mutter, rubbing the aching muscle. It is then that I notice how odd my legs look. For one thing, the jeans I wore this morning fit perfectly and reached my ankles. But now they are tight and leave half nearly half of my calf exposed. Extending my leg, I don’t feel any breakages and dislocations that might account for the sudden growth. What the hell kind of accident would cause me to grow overnight? I try to push my rising fear back down. _Don’t_ give into panic. I think I read that in some survival manual. What I need to focus on is finding some help while I still have daylight, I’ll worry about this hallucination or medical oddity later. 

I rise to my feet again and cautiously began walking, this time keeping in mind my new stature. After finding my feet, it becomes easier to follow the stream for a few hours. As I walk, the air around me feels heavy and eerily still. It is almost as if the forest knows I’m here and is watching me. If it weren’t for my dehydration and hunger, I would swear that the large trees around me seem to twitch and sway angrily. This place is definitely creepy, and the sooner I leave it the better. 

Though it is difficult to tell through the thick underbrush, I begin to see the vestiges of daylight disappear, as shafts of broken sunlight filter between the branches of the trees. _Damn_. I definitely don’t want to be stuck here at night, I haven’t been camping in years and was never very good at it. What’s worse is even though I have more stamina than I remember, my throat is becoming dry and pinched from dehydration. I can’t think of a way to safely quell the rumbling in my stomach that doesn’t involve picking potentially poisonous mushrooms; however, a drink of water from the stream is beginning to look more and more enticing. 

Why hadn’t I thought of drinking this water earlier? It looks so clear and beautiful, trickling and gleaming in a way I hadn’t noticed before. The rush of it over the rocks almost sounds musical as I walk closer. Gripping the branch of a nearby willow, I lean over the stream to get a closer look. I _must_ get a closer look. It is in that clear and beautiful surface that I finally see myself. My hair is knotted and dirty and my eyes are puffy and exhausted from holding back tears. But what stands out above those features are the tips of my ears, that protrude in a delicate point. My hair is so thick that I can’t usually see my ears while its hanging loose. I hesitantly tuck a lock behind one ear and let out a grunt of surprise. It is long and pointed, like the ears of some fairytale Elf. _Be rational_ , I let out a breath and slowly close my eyes before opening them again. Nope. The ears are still there. Abandoning rationality, I frantically tug at them which only succeeds in making them red. Fuck, did that cup of coffee I had earlier come with a heroic dose of LSD or have I just finally well and truly lost it? 

I take another shaky breath as the fresh wave of drowsiness washes over me. I must really be seeing things because suddenly the branches of the willow tree I’m leaning against seem to be reaching out and circling me. I try to muster some strength to claw them off, but as I do they tighten around my legs, painfully biting into my ankle. The only thing I can do is scream and scream until darkness finally overtakes me. In this odd reality, one thing remains consistent: my damn dreams. They rush to me in dizzying fragments. 

_A flash of gold, I see a ring lying in the middle of a pale palm. I feel my fingers envelope that palm, closing his hand over the golden band and looking into his frightened eyes._

_I am blinded by rippling and undulating flames. A great white tree stands in the middle of a courtyard, its branches lit like wooden tapers._

_I see a tombstone in a large and empty hall, my heart fills with terror at an unknown realization._

_The fiery beast rises from side of the cliff to greet me and I die, again and again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again,  
> I'm going to try to update this fic pretty frequently since there's a lot of content to get through. Sorry about the heavy stream of consciousness in this chapter, Jude is by herself and doesn't have anyone to talk to but that will change next chapter! Let me know what you think so far/any theories as to where she is.


	3. Déjà Vu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude meets some new friends and starts to put two and two together.

_“Hey dol! Merry dol! Ring a dong dillo!  
Ring a dong! Hop along! Fal lal the willow!  
Tom Bom, jolly Tom, Tom Bombadillo!_

A merry, singing voice finally rouses me from my sleep. I open my eyes and crane my head to see that I am lying in some sort of glorified donkey cart. The singing voice belongs to the man leading the donkey from his rather undignified perch. There is no other way to describe it, he’s the oddest-looking person I’ve ever met. 

At first glance, it appears as if he is, rather unsuccessfully, attempting to cosplay as some kind of leprechaun crossed with a wizard. He’s swearing a dusty bright blue tunic, closed with a belt which has a buckle shaped like a laughing face. His own face is browned from the sun, crisscrossed with smiling lines, and covered in a scraggly brown beard that is nearly as long as the pointy hat that sits on his head. From my position, I can’t see whatever shoes he’s wearing but something in me doubts they’re sneakers. 

I open my mouth to speak but rusty croak emerges instead, it’s been close to a day since I’ve had any water. 

At that noise, the man turns to look at me. “Finally awake then girlie.”

Girlie? I’m nearly twenty-six. I clear my throat before attempting to speak again. 

“How long have I been asleep?”

“You’ve been out for near on two hours now, I was beginning to worry that Old Man Willow had squeezed you too tight.” He chuckles at this, seeming to believe that murderous trees are something to laugh about. 

“I’m sorry but, who are you and where am I”? I can’t hide my confusion much longer and I desperately need some answers. 

At this the old man peers at me, obviously confused. “Tom Bombadil’s my name, and this here is the Old Forest, though not many people find their way here without meaning to.” He pauses, considering this question himself, before letting out a speculative grunt and continuing “I knew you were an odd one from the way the trees spoke of you. Usually they don’t appreciate newcomers, especially those who walk on two legs, but they tell me you’re a queer one, not like the wanders they usually encounter.”

Trees speaking? I suppose if they can suddenly move and grab people, speaking isn’t so much of a stretch. But despite the events of last night, it still strikes me as unbelievable. Maybe I’m asking the wrong man for answers, from his appearance it’s obvious he lives off the grid and could possibly be unhinged. “I’m from Charlestown Boston, I don’t exactly know how I ended up here and I’m thankful for all your help so far, but I’d appreciate it if you took me to the nearest bus station.” I try to make my voice as clear and confident as possible but the man’s brow furrows more. 

“There’s no Bos Ton here, we are privileged to roam and dwell among the spirits of the Old Forest who would not abide a road or town hereabouts. Don’t look so stricken, Bombadil will right you out.”

Am I asking the wrong kind of questions? Something inside me thrums in an odd way among these old trees and in the presence of Tom Bombadil, an odd feeling that’s accompanied me since I woke up here. I want so badly to be assured by someone or something that everything is normal. I want there to be easy answers to explain what’s happening to me, but I nearly got swallowed by a damn tree! Perhaps whatever this is can’t be explained away. Though I don’t want it to, my mind darts back my most recent dreams. I had long since given up on finding a real explanation for them, could it be that whatever is happening now is somehow related? I know I’m not dreaming now, just as surely as I know my own name. But there’s some nagging murmur in the back of my mind that’s insisting this is somehow important. 

I see something in Bombadil’s face shift as he registers my apparent confusion and worry. He flicks the reins once more before adding, “Well my girlie, you shall come home with me! The table will be laden with yellow cream, honeycomb, and white bread and butter. There is time enough for more questions at the supper table.” 

At the mention of food, my stomach lets out an embarrassingly loud growl. I want to protest, to hold on to some vestige of hope that a bus station might be nearby and this man really is crazy, but something inside me urges me to simply nod my head and listen to what he says. After all, I don’t fancy my chances against those trees all by myself. 

* * *

  
It's midday by the time we reach Tom Bombadil’s house. It’s a cozy cabin, meticulously constructed from rock and loges, with a thatched roof and a chimney spitting out smoke. Something inside of me unfurls at this. No matter where I am, a home is a home and I’m grateful to be somewhere warm and safe. Surprisingly, tears begin to prick at my eyes. For the first time, I feel truly safe enough to begin reflecting on the fact that I am lost, that I am far away from my own home.

“Welcome to Old Tom’s stoop.” His eyes search mine and I get the sense that I’m not doing a good job hiding my homesickness. He stops his whistling, “Goldberry’s feast will take that mist out of your eye never fear.” At this, he hops from his perch to take care of the donkey. 

I rise from the cart to stretch my legs. Well, it seems like my new height isn’t going away. Fruitlessly, I reach up a check my ears. Yep, still pointy. I sigh and follow Tom toward the front of the house. If he noticed my odd routine, he thankfully doesn’t comment. 

We step through the threshold into a long, low room, the light of a swinging lantern dances on the beams of the roof and a dark table covered in candles takes up most of the space. In a chair at the far side of the room sits a woman. I almost forget myself at the sight of her, she is quite possibly one of the most beautiful women I’ve seen. She has long, ropey blonde hair that hangs to her waist, a gown is the same mossy green of the trees outside and eyes that are forget-me-not blue. 

I can’t help but feel flustered and self-conscious in her presence, and I am horrified to find myself automatically dipping into a makeshift curtsey. At this, she lets out a laugh that sounds like the tinkling of bells and gracefully rises to her feet. 

In a quick motion, she strides across the room and envelops me in a hug. I reflexively stiffen under the sudden contact, but can’t help but to soften into her arms. The last day has been…difficult and I am grateful for any human contact. 

After a moment, she releases me and looks into my eyes. “Your journey has been long, and no doubt the cold of the forest still sits in your bones, but fear nothing for you are safe and in the house of Tom Bombadil and Goldberry.” Her voice is soft, yet wise and I find myself comforted. 

“Perhaps, Lady Elf, you would care to make free of some of our refreshments, for your eyes look weary and none shall stay hungry under our roof.” Goldberry waves her hand the table laden with bread, cheese, and some kind of wine. I feel my mouth water again and remember how long its been since my last meal. 

She doesn’t have to ask twice; I sit down and proceed to shovel as much food down my throat as possible without choking. As we eat, Tom launches into yet another song detailing some event that I’ve never heard of. His voice is sweet, and occasionally Goldberry joins him in singing some verse or another. From time to time, they glance at me expectedly, and I must explain again that I’ve never heard their song before. 

It is past dark by the time they are finished singing and eating. I feel exhausted but with my hunger and thirst are satiated. I need some more answers before I can think about sleep. “You said that we weren’t close to Boston, outside of this forest, where is the nearest town”? 

“That would be Bree, some half a day’s ride through the forest.” Tom starts packing a pipe full of some kind of tobacco before continuing. “Though Old Tom wouldn’t send you on such a journey in your state.”

“My state”? I raise my eyebrows. 

“Not meaning any insult Lady Elf, but you seem to know little of this wood and your appearance would be quiet singular for the folk of Bree, who are a vain and superstitious lot.”

“You mean you don’t know anyone who dresses like me’? I ask, feeling that old dread collect in my stomach once more. 

At this, Tom lets out a laugh. “Tom has not supped with Lady Elves in some time, but never in my years of rooming this wood and taking in guests have a met one who spoke and looked such as you do.”

I let his words sink in for a moment, there is no one within the general vicinity of this forest that is acquainted with the modern world. I’ve been far too ambitious in my questioning, mentioning Boston and Bus stations. “Do you know America”? I ask, already dreading the answer. 

“I have never heard of such a city or people,” Tom replies. 

“Do you have a map anywhere of this nation”? Perhaps I can at least situate myself. Tom nods and looks to Goldberry, who busies herself rummaging through some papers before producing a battered piece of parchment. 

Something in me knew that the scrawls on that map would be unrecognizable. I can’t make out any land masses, oceans, or continents that are familiar. I lay my palm flat across the page, “what is all of this called”? 

“This is known as Arda, in which the peoples of Middle-Earth dwell.” Tom replies, unfurling the scroll to reveal more foreign lands.

At that name, something within in me stirs again, is it recognition? This whole time I’ve thought that queer feeling within me was unease at this general situation but could it possibly be déjà vu? My mouth feels clammy and heavy with shock, but I force it to form the next question. “What language are we speaking”?

“Westron, the common tongue of Middle-earth.” 

“No.” I shake my head slowly, “that isn’t possible, the only language I know is English.”

“I don’t know this English, nor do I know of it being spoken anywhere in Arda.” 

“We’re speaking it right now”! I can’t help my distress from spilling into my words, I knew that there was something decidedly wrong about this place but I couldn’t possibly have predicted that it was a land completely removed from anything familiar. Yet, somehow, I can understand and speak their language without realizing it myself. 

At this moment, Goldberry finally cuts in. “We have had enough words for tonight. I am grieved that we do not possess the answers you search for, yet I am sure that a night of good rest would take some of the worry from your face.” 

I let Goldberry lead me to a small room on the ground floor, though I doubt rest will erase the creeping sense that home will not be a simple plane ride away. 

“What is your name Lady”? She asks, interrupting me from my thoughts. For the first time that night, I feel shame heat my face.  
They sheltered me, fed me, sang for me, all without demanding any information about who I was. 

“My name is Jude Taylor; I am not a lady but before yesterday I wasn’t a leprechaun either so I suppose you can call me whatever you want.” Leprechaun was probably the wrong word, Goldberry looks slightly confused but seems to register that I am making some sort of joke. 

“Well Lady Jude, perhaps you would allow me to draw you a bath? Those wounds could be cleansed and I see that the cares of the journey seem to way upon you.” 

What a nice way to tell me I stink. I dip my head in thanks as she readies a basin in the corner of the room. It takes me a second to realize that by her expectant glance she means me to strip down and bathe in front of her. 

Somehow, I can make it through being told I’m permanently lost from everything I know yet I can’t strip in front of someone? I hold back a hysteric laugh and begin shedding my clothing. Standing in the dim light, I can see that I am far dirtier than I thought. My hair is clumped and knotted, there are mud streaks across my body and I can make out bloody cuts from that damn Willow. 

Sliding in the bath, I hold back a moan as the warm water soothes my aching body. Goldberry begins gently detangling my hair, humming a soothing tune as she works. Something about her hands against my scalp remind me of my mom brushing and braiding my hair before school, it’s been a while since someone else has touched my hair like that and it brings on a fresh wave of homesickness. 

“Who is Tom Bombadil”? I blurt out, eager to fill the silence and yearning in my heart with meaningless chatter. Goldberry laughs and continues to comb my hair. “I mean, why do you guys live in this forest and not Bree”? 

“Tom Bombadil is the master of the trees and grasses of the forest; he has been here far longer than memory and will continue to be here after the Misty Mountains flatten and the last of the Elves take their leave of Middle Earth.”

“So…you are old like him”? I can’t think of a more polite way to phrase the question.

She replies with a laugh, “some call me the daughter of the river, though I answer only to Goldberry.” 

“So if you two guardians of this forest, and older than most, does that mean you know about why I’m here or how I can get home.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I see Goldberry’s eyes sadden. 

She lays a comforting hand on my shoulder, “I am truly sorry Lady Jude, but I sense that you will not find the answers you seek here, for I have never seen an Elf like you nor heard of the lands you travel from.” 

I twist to look at her, “thank you Goldberry, really, and thank Tom for me as well, you didn’t have to be this kind.” 

She smiles, “rest Jude, and in the marrow, we shall discuss what is to be done.”

After Goldberry leaves, I dress in the long nightgown laid out in the bed and finally surrender to sleep.  


* * *

I wake with a start, twisting in the dampened sheets. My dreams last night were the usual nonsensical variety. It started with that golden band, lying in the middle of a great table which people were assembled around. Then, of course, those hideous creatures charging at me. Lastly, but not least, the monster and my death. 

With a sigh, I push myself out of bed. In the kitchen, Goldberry informs me that Tom has gone wandering in the forest for lilies. We have a quick breakfast of milk and bread before I am shown back into my room, where a simple, light blue homespun dress is waiting for me. It’s the kind of fabric and fashion that I would see at a renaissance fair or fantasy cosplay event yet it is far more realistic. 

It takes me about ten minutes to figure out where each fastening connects but soon, I am able to emerge from the room and great Goldberry again. Unsurprisingly I have more questions. 

“Why did that willow tree attack me yesterday, I mean why do the trees seem to hate me”? The question feels awkward and stupid but Goldberry studies me seriously. 

“Old Willow is sick and corrupt; he tries to squeeze any passerby he sees. As for the other folk of the forest, they distrust newcomers.” A wistful note enters her voice as she continues, “there was once a time when there was naught but trees in Arda. There were no men to cut, chop, and grind their flesh into dust. There were no men to scatter their seedlings and stop the streams. Many have heard the whispers of their brethren who live in unprotected lands, they fear a similar fate.” 

“Oh, I get it. In America all that happens as well, we just don’t have people like you and Tom to keep them safe.” 

“They didn’t try to lead you astray.” Goldberry studies me closely, “most trees in the Old Forest would trap and trick all those who enter, shifting places to block the way. Yet the only tree that trapped you was the wicked Willow.” 

I shrug at this. “Tom said they thought I was strange, but not a threat.” 

“There is much more to you than meets the eye Lady Jude.” At that, the conversation ends. 

For the rest of the day, we sit and discuss various aspects of our respect worlds. Goldberry explains most common races to me. I am amused to discover that I am living in a somewhat stereotypical fantasy land filled with dwarves, elves, and orcs. Of course, I hadn’t yet heard of “hobbits,” short human-like creatures with furry feet and ferocious appetites. In return for this useful information, I tell Goldberry about the latest season of Downton Abby. 

* * *

It is dark by the time I hear footsteps on the threshold of the house. Goldberry and I immediately rise to meet Tom Bombadil but instead are greeted by four funny looking men. Getting a closer look, I suddenly feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut. 

It’s as if my dreams have come to life. I’ve seen each one of them in some flash or another, especially the pale and worried looking man with dark locks. It takes several minutes of heavy breathing on my part and concerned looks from the newcomers for realization to strike me. Of course, how could it have taken me this long? That odd feeling, the déjà vu, the dreams. _You fool, you utter fool._

A hysterical laugh suddenly emerges from me, because despite it all, I’m almost relieved. I’m not mad, it’s all real, all of it. I have entered a world I thought only existed in my dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends,  
> This took me ages to write and I'm so tired. I'll do some more grammar checking tomorrow so I'm sorry in advance for any mistakes. As usual, it takes our OC a while to figure things out but things should start to get interesting after this. As usual, let me know what you think or if you have any theories/suggestions. And as usual I don't own any of Tolkien's writing and I sometimes quote directly from him in this chapter.


	4. On the Kindness of Hobbits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude meets some very important people and learns new things.

There’s an odd ringing sensation in my ears as I gasp for breath. Oh god, not this. I used to get panic attacks after some of my worst nightmares, especially ones that involved that fiery thing. But with age I eventually became numb to even the worst dreams. Not now, now I am lying on the floor heaving and laughing, I am faintly aware of how damp my cheeks are from tears. 

Suddenly, I feel cool hands cradling my forehead. “Breathe with me Jude, breathe.” Goldberry’s command is simple, and I take gulps of breath with her, allowing my body to relax and my mind to return. 

Once I feel strong enough, I swallow and sit up, the horrible fog clearing as rabidly as it came. Unsurprisingly, the four strangers in front of me look disturbed and nervous. How do I even begin to explain any of this to them?

“I’m sorry, I’m just a little lost and nervous of newcomers.” The excuse is feeble and halfheartedly delivered but, thankfully, the visitors start murmuring their apologies while shrugging off their coats and sitting down to eat. 

Throughout the rest of the evening, I try to put on the best face I can but I can’t help but gape at each hobbit. There’s the two light haired jokesters, whom I learn are called Merry and Pippin. The weary one is called Frodo, while his red-cheeked companion is Sam. Their names are new, but I’ve seen their faces over and over again in one dream or another, especially Frodo’s. He catches my eye and I quickly look away, not before he notices what I’m staring at. 

The ring, it lays on a string around his throat, the gold shining against his pale skin. Frodo’s hand immediately clutches at it, and I see him tuck it underneath his shirt. That band, which I know from my dreams is somehow connected to the blazing eye and the journey I undertake, is just sitting there mere feet from me. 

“That’s a cool looking ring.” I comment, trying to break the awkward silence between us. 

Frodo instantly becomes even more guarded, shifting away from me ever so slightly. “It was my uncle’s, now it has become entrusted to me.” 

“Really? I have a few family heirlooms but none of them are that fancy.” There’s no way that ring is just some piece of jewelry. 

“It was precious to my uncle.” His voice trails off and he hesitates before adding, “but now it is burdensome for me.”

“It is a heavy burden to bear.” I remember how grieved he looked in my dreams, and that is reflected in the heavy light of the dinner table. 

“What would you know of the burden I must bear? We mustn’t speak of such things.” 

I sigh, suddenly feeling very exhausted with everything. “I don’t know anything, I’m just trying to figure it all out.” 

My apparent incompetency at last seems to relax Frodo. “Tom Bombadil said you came from a faraway land.” 

“I don’t think anyone here would recognize the land that I come from. I'm very far from it right now and all I want is to get back home. That’s it.” I say the last bit more firmly than the rest, and Frodo relaxes even further. 

“All I want is to protect my own home Lady Jude, perhaps you now understand why I can’t answer any more of your questions.” 

“Frodo”! I turn, as Merry and Pippin jostle each other to join our conversation. “Ask the she-Elf if she has any stories of Rivendell” 

I smile and shake my head, “I’m sorry but I’m afraid you’re going to be rather disappointed with this she-Elf.” 

“Not very,” replies Merry cheekily, “your reaction to our entering the home will be fodder for countless tales at The Green Dragon.” 

Merry is quickly chastised by Sam, though a loud chorus of laughter follows his statement. 

For the rest of the night, I am asked for elven tales and songs. The company is universally let down to hear that I know of no such tales and have never lived among the elves, Sam especially, who I hear was anxious to meet a real one. 

The night is jovial through the addition of the halflings, who enjoy singing and making merry. Despite the good feeling in the air, I can’t help but feel weighted down by the implications of this evening. I have become trapped in a world I had assured myself only existed in my dreams. If Frodo and the other hobbits are real, that means all manner of hardships I’ve seen are true and coming for me. There is no way I’m returning home anytime soon. What’s worse is I can’t easily find answers to what the hell I’m doing here because searching for them will make me look like a madwoman. 

The evening winds down and we all head off to our respective beds. Chivalrously, I am awarded the guest room while the hobbits bunk down in the parlor. I guess there’s one aspect of being in some medieval world that isn’t so bad.

* * *

_My blade flashes as I charge at dozens of large, grunting creatures. Merry and Pippin are ashen with terror at my side. Though I feel great fear as well, it is outweighed by some animal impulse, some instinctual need to fight them, to protect my friends._

_I stand in a great and silent hall, a tomb, but that realization comes too late._

_We are breathlessly running from some unknown fate, though I feel hollow and weary inside. I have failed, failed terribly._

I wake from a start from my dreams, which have now taken on a greater significance. These are all flashes of something that could come to be, many of them involved the familiar faces of the hobbits but also of people I’ve never met, will meet one day. Perhaps I should spend more time trying to figure out what each means, if they really are some signifier of my fate here. 

A familiar smell interrupts my morning thoughts, _bacon_. I rise immediately and hurry through the now familiar clasps of my dress. 

In the kitchen, I see that Sam has taken the initiative to fry up a great mess of bacon, eggs, and potatoes over the hearth. Merry and Pippin seem to be in the midst of their second plateful, while Frodo thoughtfully picks at some eggs. 

“Bless you Sam.” I declare, perhaps overfamiliarly, but Sam breaks out into a pleased blush and makes a plate for me. I sit between Merry and Pippin and unsuccessfully try to compete with them in an egg eating competition. After we’re finished, and my sides a near splitting, I decide to attempt conversation again. 

“So, did you all plan to go through the Old Forest”? 

“We planned to meet Gandalf ages ago but he never—ouch”! Pippin was in the midst of explain before Merry elbowed him into silence. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be intrusive.” I say quickly.

To my surprise, Frodo cuts in. “Tell her,” he says quietly, avoiding my gaze. 

Pippin clears his throat with a pointed look at Merry and continues, “we were meant to meet Gandalf before setting out but he never showed up, that is the grey Wizard, so we’ve been journeying to avoid the Black Riders. Our short cut took us here.” 

Frodo shakes his head. “Tell her the whole story.” I am shocked, as are the rest of the room. 

Pippin looks slightly uncertain before elaborating about the ring, Bilbo’s disappearance, and the words of Gandalf. It takes nearly half an hour to explain everything and answer my numerous questions. By the end, I am amazed. A ring of immense evil somehow winds up in the hands of a peaceful farming community, yet they are still able to make it this far. “We got very lucky to meet Tom where we did.” Frodo adds pointedly. 

“Still, I could barely make it two hours here without being swallowed by a tree.” This exclamation prompts demands for my story, all of which I really don’t feel ready to tell. 

“I’m just very, very lost. I’m hoping that through meeting the right people, I can find my way back home.” This explanation obviously does not satisfy the party but they seem to realize that’s all they’re getting out of me. 

Thankfully, I see the familiar shape of Tom Bombadil in the doorway, back from an early morning rambling. 

“Well little masters, I see you are packed for some journey ahead. Though my heart is heavy to see you leave so soon, I would not seek to delay you from your task ahead. Seek out Gandalf at The Prancing Pony, in the town of Bree.” He turns to me, “as for you, I would council you to do the same. You will find no answers living among the trees, you must meet with Gandalf and your own folk in Rivendell.” 

Rivendell, the elven city that was spoken of the other night. Something in me doesn’t want to leave my little sanctuary in the forest, where I know I am safe and cared for. But I know if I don’t go now, I may never leave. I nod my head at Tom and murmur my thanks. 

With that business out of the way, Tom readies the hobbits with beautiful blades and sheaths. I try not to look too amused as they each attempt a rudimentary swing. 

As the company ready themselves to leave, I see Goldberry standing anxiously in the corner. She was so kind to me; I wouldn’t feel right leaving without saying something to her. I cross the room to meet her and she clasps my hands. 

“Do not change what is human in you, for it is precious and just as much as part of you as anything else.”

Her words are ominous and confusing to me, I would never consider myself as anything but human, despite my temporary form. 

“I won’t, I’ll always be Jude Taylor from Boston,” I reply. 

She seems relieved at those words. She turns and lifts something that was leaning against the wall. I am amazed to see a long and elegantly curved blade, with swirling designs etched in the steel. “This is an old Elvish blade, perhaps your hands will remember the strength they once had if they grip a blade worthy of your name.” 

I gape at her, _the strength they once had?_ Does she know more than she let on earlier? Before I can inundate her with questions, she pushes the blade into my hand and hurriedly strides off to exchange words with each of the hobbits. 

Still reeling from the weight of Goldberry’s words, I drift across the room to stand next to Frodo. I can’t contain myself any longer, “are you okay with me traveling with all of you? I mean I know you want to keep a low profile and I don’t exactly blend in.” 

He turns to be, his face breaking out in a rare and comforting smile. “Tom Bombadil’s last words to me last night were to trust you, for my journey would be fruitless without your aid. I don’t know much about you Lady Jude but I do know that you must have some reason to journey with us and I would not stand in the way of that.”

I find that I am endlessly shocked by the kindness and fortitude of hobbits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,  
> This is sort of more of a short and fluffy chapter but we'll be getting into more serious events in the next one. I'm sorry for any spelling mistakes but I'm pretty knackered and I'll check for spelling later after posting tonight. As usual, thanks to anyone who's reading and let me know in the comments what you think or if you have any suggestions for improvement. 
> 
> The next chapter is a bit longer so I'm taking two nights to work on it, it should be out tomorrow.


	5. Four hobbits and an elf walk into a bar...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude and her newfound friends go to a certain inn...

We ride hard for most of the day, as none of our party are eager to be caught in the woods at night without a host. It is nearly dark by the time we reach Bree. It is a small village of stone and timber houses, nestled against a low wooded hill. There is a great gate with bars that close the western entrance and part of me wonders what they could be guarding against. Is it the forest? Or perhaps newcomers like us.

As we approach, a notch in the gate opens and a stern looking head sticks out. “Hobbits and an elf”! He exclaims. “What business could bring four Hobbits and an Elf to Bree at an hour this late.”?

Four hobbits and an elf, it sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. I am beyond exhausted and ready to snap his head off when Frodo thankfully interjects. “We wish to stay at the inn, our business is our own.” 

I smile at that, though he is quiet and thoughtful, it is quickly becoming apparent to me that Frodo has a bite to him as well. 

The Gatekeeper looks slightly taken aback at these words and I remember how Tom Bombadil described the people of Bree, a vain and superstitious lot indeed. But to my relief, he begins to unlock the gate, muttering to himself and eyeing us curiously under the light. “I mean no offence young sirs and madam, it’s my job to ask questions after nightfall and there’s talk of strange folk abroad, can’t be too careful.”

As I enter the town, I can’t help but be shocked at the shear crudity of it all. When Bree was described to me as a large village, I expected more than simple thatched houses intercepted by a muddy roadway. The main attraction seems to be The Prancing Pony, which I see advertised ahead by a swinging, wooden sign. 

I see several people of dubious repute hanging around the outside of the inn, their eyes curiously tracking our every move. I am grateful by the time we enter the inn.

* * *

The Prancing Pony is noisy and smokey, but warm. In the dim light, I can make out a mix of “big folk” like me as well as hobbits, and even a few dwarfs. It is the first time I’ve seen them outside of Goldberry’s descriptions, and I can’t help but gawk a little before drawing an unfriendly stare back. 

“Good evening milady, little masters.” A burly but friendly looking innkeeper greets us. “We’ve got cozy accommodation available for folk of any size.” He nods at me as he says this, I suddenly realize that some of the looks we’re attracting might be because of me. I guess elves don’t usually travel to Bree. 

“My name is Underhill.” Frodo answers, after hesitating for a moment, no doubt to think up an alias. “We’re friends of Gandalf the Grey, can you tell him we’ve arrived.”?

At this, the innkeeper frowns and my heart sinks. “I remember Gandalf, elderly chap with a big grey beard, but we’ve not seen him for six months.” 

Damn, nothing can ever just go smoothly here can it? “What are we going to do now”? I mutter. 

“There’s nothing we can do but wait for him.” Frodo decides. “Gandalf will come, of that I am sure.”

In the end, we rent a room and decide to eat our dinner downstairs. As I’m taking my seat, I notice one figure in the corner who hasn’t taken his eyes off us since we arrived. He’s dressed in black, and his face is obscured by the shadows, though I can see the glow of his pipe and the clouds of smoke that follow. He’s good at pretending not to be watching, but by the way the hairs on the back of my neck are standing, I know he’s scrutinizing us. God this is creepy, I need a drink. 

I walk up to the bar and am pleased to discover that they have pints here. This world can’t be all that bad. The barman gives a raised eyebrow but I pointedly shove a copper at him. Goldberry was kind enough to impress some more practical gifts upon me at the doorway that included money and some spare clothing.

As I return to the table Pippin and Merry stare at me as if I’ve grown a second head. 

“What’s that”? Pippin finally asks. 

“This, my friend, is a pint.” I reply with a grin as I take my seat. 

“You mean it comes in pints? I’m getting one”! They both rise and hurry to the bar as I wonder what I’ve done. 

I watch as they both sit by the bar, slurping down the pints rather aggressively. I sheepishly hope they don’t get too drunk. 

“So, who’s Gandalf anyway”? I ask Sam, who nearly chokes on his food. 

“You mean you’ve never heard of Gandalf the Grey” I shake my head and he quickly rattles off other names. “Old Graybeard, Stormcrow, the White Rider”? 

“I’m sorry but before yesterday I’d never heard of hobbits.” 

“You’re a queer one Lady Jude and no mistake. Someday we shall have to hear all of your tale. For now, I shall tell you of Gandalf.”

Sam tells story after story about the exploits of Gandalf, who seems to be a great figure in the otherwise quiet lives of the Shirefolk. I wonder how one man has the time to be a wizard, producer of fireworks, and “disrupter of the peace.” 

“Tom said that in order to understand my situation I needed to talk to Gandalf,” I interject. 

“If anyone has the answers, Gandalf will, I’ve never known anyone so knowledgeable,” Sam replies wistfully. 

We are interrupted by a loud exclamation from the bar, “Baggins! Of course, I know a Baggins he’s sitting right there.” I am horrified to see Pippin pointing right at us, as some of the shiftier looking individuals in the bar turn to glare in our direction. Damn, I really shouldn’t have told them about pints. 

At that moment, I see Frodo’s face grow ashen with fear. He rises to his feet rather hurriedly and backs away until he suddenly disappears. I’ve grown accustomed to seeing weird things since I came here, but nothing could’ve prepared me for someone vanishing into thin air. Several things happen at once, the man in the corner slowly rises to his feet, a twisting pain in my stomach brings me to my knees, and the patrons begin exclaiming and murmuring. 

Everything feels _wrong,_ as if something within me is screaming out. I grit my teeth through the horrible sensation and see that the man in the corner is staring at me. Suddenly, Frodo reappears and the horrible feeling immediately subsides. The people in the bar are now openly staring. I have to act fast. 

I start clapping, trying to put all of my one semester of theater club into the act. “Mr. Underhill that was some trick, I didn’t believe that you could really hide that well but consider me fooled.” The chilly atmosphere seems to warm slightly at my words, most of the proprietors are well into their cups and I hope my words are somewhat convincing. Perhaps they will attribute what they saw as some cheap parlor trick that they drunkenly assumed was something else. 

I turn to Frodo but he’s gone, as is the man from the corner. Shit.

As the chatter begins to fill the room once more, I stalk over to the innkeeper, trying my best to look menacing. “Where did he take him.”? I demand.

I see the innkeeper’s eyes flick to the sheathed sword hanging at my waist. Never mind that I don’t know how to use it, there’s no need to tell him that. I meet his gaze and raise an eyebrow; he quickly points to one of the rooms upstairs. 

I run up the stairs, taking them two at a time. As I reach the door, it opens and a hand roughly pulls me in.

* * *

I can’t believe this; I am face to face with yet another specter from my dreams. The man has a scruffy, weather-beaten face that almost hides his good looks but I’ve seen that face before 

He tightens his grip on my arm and pulls me against the wall. “That speech you rolled out down there, do you think it worked on anyone”? 

“I—,” my voice becomes startlingly small as I attempt to stutter out some answer, so much for bravado. 

His voice lowers menacingly, “it didn’t work on me, I can usually avoid being seen if I wish, but to disappear entirely, that indeed is a rare gift.” 

“Who are you”? Frodo demands, the man turns from me to address him. 

“Are you frightened”? He asks. We both nod. 

Something within him seems to deflate a little at this and he releases me. “Not nearly frightened enough. I know what hunts you.”

As if on cue, I hear a noise in the corridor. The man nods at me as he draws his own sword, I’m not sure how to tell him that I won’t be any help if it comes down to fighting. Experimentally, I try pulling the elven blade out of its sheath. _Old strength indeed_. I can barely pull the whole thing out, and once I do; it wobbles dangerously in my hands. 

“You have no skills with a blade, do you”? He asks point blank, and I sheepishly shake my head. 

The door bursts open and I am relieved to see Merry, Pippin, and Sam standing in the doorway, their daggers unsheathed. 

“Let them go or I’ll have you, Longshanks”! Sam cries out, trying his best to look intimidating. 

At this, a light smile plays on the man’s lips. I can tell he’s trying hard not to laugh. “You have a stout heart, little Hobbit, my name is Strider, I’m a friend of Gandalf’s. You can no longer wait for the Wizard, they’re coming.” 

“The Dark Riders”? I ask. 

“What do you know of them”? Strider replies. 

“Nothing, only that the ring seems to draw them, especially when Frodo puts it on.” 

“They were once great men, now they are slaves to the ring’s power. They are the Nazgul, Ringwraiths, neither living or dead. They will never stop hunting you.” 

At that moment, I again feel that intense dread unspooling inside of me. Something is terribly wrong. “I think we’re in danger.”

“Yeah, I think I’m beginning to get that picture as well,” Merry replies sarcastically. 

“No, I mean immediate danger.” Something just feels wrong, I can’t quite describe it. 

Strider eyes me and makes a decision. “You’ll all stay with me tonight, in the morning we’ll set off for Rivendell.” 

We bunk down with Strider for the night. Though I can’t get any rest, that terrible feeling inside of me has not subsided. Before we moved our things, I stuffed pillows under the bedrolls in a half-hearted attempt to trick the Black Riders for a moment.

Halfway into the night, I hear hisses and screeches of anger as they discover my deception. I sit up further and make eye contact with Strider; we grimly listen to the Ringwraiths tear through our old room. 

He turns to me quietly. “You somehow knew the Black Riders had arrived, you felt Frodo’s agony while he was wearing the ring, and you carry an elven blade that you cannot use. You may have earned the trust of the hobbits but you have not yet earned mine. I know you are keeping dangerous secrets.” 

With those ominous words, he turns over and I decide to pretend to go to sleep.

* * *

“How do we know if this Strider is really a friend of Gandalf,” Merry hisses to me as we travel  
through a rather gloomy and overgrown forest. We’ve been marching at a killer pace for hours and the some of our party seems to be growing tired and angry. 

“Don’t worry, we can trust him.” I confidently answer. I wish I could assure Merry more but telling him that we can trust Strider because of some dreams I’ve had would probably have the opposite effect. 

Sam at least doesn’t seem worried. “He’s taking us to Rivendell Merry, just think we’ll finally get to meet some real elves.” I clear my throat pointedly and he looks rather startled. “Begging your pardon Lady Jude.” 

“You know you don’t all have to call me Lady Jude, there aren’t any ladies where I come from.” 

“You mean no high folk at all”? Merry asks, clearly shocked. 

“Well, we have those, we just like to pretend they don’t exist so we don’t use titles or anything.” 

“That sounds very confusing,” mutters Sam.

“It can be a little but I’m used to just answering to Jude.” 

We spend the rest of the journey discussing various oddities about my world. I tell them that we only eat three meals a day, which the hobbits find outrageous but Strider insures me is actually quite normal. The sky is darkening by the time we reach a distant hill, topped by old ruins. It reminds me of the stone circles I used to see on Scottish tourist brochures, but taller and more imposing. 

Strider mercifully comes to a stop. “This was once the great Watchtower of Amon Sul. We shall rest here tonight.” 

The hobbits make it to the top of the hill before collapsing into a small hollow that the stones make. I’m not very tired, which I’m beginning to learn seems to be a feature of my new body. I must’ve been walking for a full day but my legs barely hurt. 

“I’m going to have a look around, stay here,” with that, Strider quickly walks away. 

“I think I’m going to take a break too,” I add. Even though I have more stamina, I don’t seem to be blessed by a larger bladder. 

It takes a few minutes of rummaging around in the nearby forest to find a suitable spot to pee. God what I would give to be back in a land with plumbing and toilet paper. 

After I’m finished, I’m walking back towards the ruins when I feel that horrible sensation hit me again. Oh no, oh god no. 

I break out into a sprint, thankful for my longer legs. I see them immediately; five hooded and unnaturally tall figures surround the hobbits. I can’t make out any face or limbs beneath the cloak, just darkness. 

They try to fight them off, but Merry, Pippin, and Sam are brushed aside likes leaves. I make it to the top of the ruins a second too late, one of them has pulled out a gleaming blade and pushed it into Frodo’s shoulder. He lets out a cry of pure agony that slices straight through my heart. 

“Over here you bastards”! I shriek, pulling out my blade and charging right into the center of the stone circle. I’m not a naturally brave person, I’m deathly afraid of spiders and these things are definitely scarier. But all I can think of is Frodo’s pain, what those things would do to Merry and Pippin if they had the chance. The one standing over Frodo sees me and…hesitates. I can’t believe my eyes. 

In that moment Strider crashes into the one of the Ringwraiths, wielding a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. He moves with lethal accuracy, dodging the blows of the Ringwraith and whirling the torch, which lights its cloaks instantly. It lets out high pitched scream and almost comically runs into the one nearest to me. Strider makes quick word of the other two, lighting the cloak of one and throwing the torch into the face of another. The leader seems to recognize momentary defeat and lets out a call before slipping away as quietly and quickly as it came, the others follow. 

“Frodo”! Sam cries out, rushing to the side of his injured friend. His face is deathly pale and his eyes have almost rolled back in his head, I’ve never seen someone look so bad.  
“Do something, please”! Sam begs to Strider. 

He kneels to the ground and picks up the dagger, it has a long, thin blade that suddenly melts in his hands. 

“He’s been stabbed by a Morgul blade, this is beyond my skill to heal.” 

I walk over to Frodo, my breathing is harsh and uneven but there’s an odd calmness rushing through me. His wound is small but dark, already causing the veins around it to constrict and turn black. 

I kneel down and place a hand against his feverish skin, he jerks out and moans. I don’t why I’m doing this, but something deep within me is roaring to do something, I’m just not sure what. I concentrate and can feel something beneath his skin, a thrumming energy that mirrors my own. 

I latch on to that as the world around me wipes away. I can vaguely make out the voices of Strider and the hobbits but that seems to belong to another reality. Here, it is Frodo and I, connected in an impossible way. 

Frodo’s breathing evens out as I feel myself beginning to pour some of my own energy into him. An odd rush of déjà vu hits me as the familiarity of the act sinks in. I know I’ve somehow done this before; something within me somehow knew to do this to Frodo. 

Suddenly, alarm begins to penetrate the calm that has enveloped my senses. It’s been too long; I’m beginning to weaken. I can’t quite heal him fully, I’m not skilled enough. 

The muffled voices outside grow louder as I feel my body sway and my senses diminish further. I can barely feel my head strike the cool of the rocky floor before darkness takes me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew this one took me ages to write but I'm done.  
> Let me know how the pacing feels to you because I'm beginning to feel like too much is happening in each chapter. I could probably work on that. As usual, I own nothing and I occasionally lift dialogue straight from the movies or books in this chapter so keep that in mind.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments if you want. This one was a lot of fun to write.


	6. A Fork in the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude wakes up in Rivendell.

_I am too late to stop it; the arrow strikes well and true into the chest of the man and he sinks wordlessly to his knees. A muted scream tears from my lips as I rush to his side and cradle his body to the earth._

_A woman turns to me, her blue eyes piercing mine and beckoning me toward a pool of water._

_I see Strider, helplessly angry and unrestrained. Something terrible has happened, everything has been broken beyond repair._

_The beast’s whip curls and latches onto my arm, pulling me into the darkness bellow._

I awake with a strangled cry. My body is shaking and sore, strangely mortal after days of action and stamina. My last memories were of myself falling into a darkness from which I thought I’d never return. But now, I’m lying in a large and comfortable bed next to an open window. It is at least midday, as I can see the dappled sunlight splaying across my bedcover. 

A voice cuts through my thoughts. “It is twelve o’clock in the morning in case you are wondering.” 

Technically, I’ve never seen the soft-eyed and grey haired old main sitting by my bed. I’ve never heard is voice either, though it is strangely comforting and familiar. Those eyes though and that old crooked hat and staff, I’ve seen them countless times in my dreams. 

“Gandalf,” I breathe, weary from relief. For it must be Gandalf, who else could this man be but the great wizard from Sam’s stories. 

“I’m afraid that though you recognize me, I have yet to be acquainted with you. Though stories of your valor and skill have long since reached my ears from your companions.” 

“My name is Jude Taylor, Tom Bombadil told me to seek you out,” my voice trails off, I’m not quite sure how much to tell him or where to even begin. 

“Ah, Master Gamgee told be your story would be a particular one. As a curator of odd tales and even odder people, I regret that I have yet to hear the full scope of yours.” As he peers closer at me, a note in his voice changes, “though I suspect there is much more to you than meets the eye. Yet you hesitate to tell me the truth. Why”? 

“If I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me,” I press a shaky hand to my forehead, which is feverish and hot. 

“Though I have travelled far and learned a great deal, I don’t credit myself with understanding all in this world. I see no lie in your eyes nor have your travelling companions led me to believe that you are of anything but noble mind and spirit.”

Can I really tell someone the whole truth? I don’t deny that something within me is yearning to do so. For close to a week, I’ve been concealing my true identity and situation from those around me, it’s been exhausting. Right now, I want desperately for someone to just believe me, to make me feel a little sane. 

With a shaky breath, I tell Gandalf the truth, the whole truth. I start with my strange dreams, even detailing some to Gandalf after he asks. I move onto my time in the Old Forest, garnering a chuckle from Gandalf after my descriptions of Tom Bombadil. Finally, I describe the most difficult parts, my new elven form, the odd feelings and premonitions, and somehow healing Frodo. When I’m finished, I feel an odd sense of relief. It is as if some heavy stone that I didn’t realize was weighing on my chest had been lifted. 

“Well,” I tentatively venture after a moment of silence, “you think it’s crazy I’m sure.” 

“There are some folk who would call me ‘odd’ or ‘a disturber of the peace.’ Some fail to understand that there are things in this world that cannot be explained or rationalized. I do not think that you are crazy Jude Taylor.”

I breathe a sigh of relief at those words, I was so prepared to be faced with ridicule and scorn after telling my tale that I’m not sure what to say. 

“Tom Bombadil said that if there was anyone who knew some way for me to get home, it would be you.” 

“He does me much credit with those words though I suspect you will not like what I am about to say. There cannot be any return for you until you have done what you were placed here to do.”

“You think there’s some reason I’m here”? 

“You must be here for a reason, why else would these events you detail occur”? 

“And you think the only way I’ll have a chance to return to my home is to see out the things from my dreams”? My mind returns to the fiery beast. 

“Those dreams came to you for a reason. Someone with foresight of our journey ahead has come to us, that cannot simply be a coincidence.” 

“What if I die”? It’s a blunt question, but if Gandalf believes all my dreams will become true, I’m in more trouble than I thought. 

“Do you see death”? 

I shudder and force myself to speak the words, the realization that I’ve been avoiding. “I see my death, at the hands of something horrible.”

Gandalf pauses for a moment to consider this. “Not everything that is prophesied necessarily comes to pass. Perhaps with your abilities you can spare you and those you love many hardships.”

“And if I decide to just hide away somewhere”? I think about Goldberry’s little nook in the forest, surely a fiery beast couldn’t reach me there 

“That would be your choice to make Jude, but I’m not sure you’d find yourself where you wish to be.” 

It’s more tempting than I’d like to admit. All the hardships I’ve dreamt about could be avoided. I could stay in some safe corner and live a quiet life. But to do that, I would be giving up on the chance of ever seeing my family again. I would be throwing away the life I wanted and planned for. I am still just a college grad from Boston, but I also somehow summoned the courage to face Ringwraiths and managed to help Frodo. I know that I have strength within me. 

I look up to meet Gandalf’s eyes and my decision is made, “I’m going home, no matter what that takes.” 

Something almost sorrowful crosses his face before he quickly stands, “I suspected you would say that, the young masters tell me you have a fiery spirit. We shall need all the spirit we can get if the events you describe are true. Now I must leave you to rest.” 

He sweeps out of the room and I fall back against the bed, exhausted.

* * *

It is dark by the time I summon the energy to get up. I’m happy to see that someone has thoughtfully laid out new clothing for me. The dress is unlike anything I’ve ever worn. Its dark blue, the color of the deep sea, and spun from the softest and lightest fabric. It slides like water over my skin and I am pleased to see that it actually fits me. 

In the mirror, I am struck by how different I look. I see the obvious, my longer and lighter body, the points of my ears that push through my curly hair. But there are other changes as well, my mouth looks tense and there’s an odd hollowness about my eyes. The past few days have clearly taken their toll. 

I tentatively open the great windows that stand next to my bed. A cool and refreshing breeze enters the room and I peek out. Rivendell is truly beautiful. It is a great and stately with turrets that stands at the edge of a gorge. The air is misty and silver, and the gardens bellow are lit by moonlight. I can see why someone would be content to spend an eternity here. 

A polite knock on my door interrupts my gawking. “Come in,” I answer. 

The door opens to reveal a tall man. Not a man, an Elf. Though I’ve never seen one in real life, he couldn’t possibly be anything else. Aside from his great height and the pointed ears, he exudes an aura of mysticism and impenetrability that comes with many lifetimes of age and wisdom. 

_“Mae g’ovannen híril Jude. Ach im Elrond, nathlo na Imladris.”_

His mouth is moving to make those beautiful words but I can’t understand any of it. I shake my head helplessly. 

He seems to understand and smiles lightly at me. “I am surprised to find that you can speak no Sindarin Lady Jude. I am lord Elrond and I have come to welcome you to Rivendell.” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t grow up with elves.” 

“Indeed, _Mithrandir_ told me of your unusual story.” 

“You thought I was lying”? I ask bluntly. 

He tilts his head, considering a tactful response. “I thought you addled perhaps, or confused. Sometimes matters such as these have simple answers.” 

“I wouldn’t waste everyone’s time like this if there were a simple answer,” I grind out, trying to keep my temper.

“The frailty of man has time and time again been proven to me; I am glad to see a member of my own species has not have fallen so low into deceit. I feel no lie in your words.”

The frailty of man? I’m glad Lord Elrond no longer thinks I’m a fraud, but why should he believe me simply because I am no longer human? 

“How’s Frodo”? This odd interaction has distracted me so much I almost forgot to ask. 

“I have drawn the black breathe from him and he is at peace and resting. Though I was surprised to see some cruder healing had been administered.”

“Did it help him”? I am suddenly seized by the thought that my gut feeling could have led me astray. What if I hurt him as well as myself?

“He would have been past my help had it not been for your intervention.” I feel relief course through my body at his answer, though his tone changes as he continues, “ _fêa_ healing, despite your shortcomings, is far more advanced that one such as you should ever be able to attempt.” 

“Something inside of me just knew how to do it,” I’m not sure how to offer a better answer. 

He scrutinizes me for a moment before accepting this response. I get the sense that Lord Elrond is far less trusting than Gandalf. 

“Do you how know I did it”? 

He shakes his head; I imagine that, were he mortal, lines of confusion and stress might mark his face at that moment. “I am sorry I cannot be of greater help, but I have no knowledge of how an untrained elf could attempt that and succeed.”

“It’s okay, everyone who meets me is usually as confused as you are.” 

He smiles at this, though seems more amused at me than at my words. “Mithrandir also told me of your plans to continue searching for answers. Know that as a lost elf, the doors of _Imladris_ are open to you should you choose a more comfortable path.” 

“Thank you, but I want to stay with Gandalf.” 

“That is your choice Lady Jude.” He seems almost relieved that I’m going, and I can’t blame him. He gives me another penetrating look before turning to the door, “there will be a council meeting to discuss the situation of the ring tomorrow at midday, please enjoy hospitalities of _Imladris_ until then.”

I nod as he sweeps out of the room. 

I’m not quite sure how to feel. I’ve finally met another elf, but I felt more recognition and connection to Strider than to Lord Elrond. Despite my new features, I’m still a human at heart. I could never make a home among the elves; I simply don’t belong. My meeting with Lord Elrond has cemented that. 

A grumbling in my stomach changes my thoughts, time to find the kitchen and eat something.

* * *

I’m not surprised to find Merry, Pippin, and Sam in the kitchens. Sam appears to be poking about a pan of sausages, while a confused elven cook stands off to the side observing. 

“Jude”! The scene is broken the second Merry recognizes me and I am squeezed into a tight hug. 

“Alright alright, I’m still a little sore,” I laugh, as he finally pulls away. 

Something in their expression changes as they take me in. The excitement in the air shifts to awe.

Sam bows deeply. “Milady Jude, we solemnly thank you for aiding Mister Frodo at Weathertop. We are honored to have your company this evening.” 

I suppress a laugh. “Look I’m not an elf like Lord Elrond, you don’t need to talk to me like that. I really don’t know what I did, but I’m not some special lady and please don’t treat me like one. If you want to your show gratitude, you can give me the extra sausage.”

With that decided, we slide into easy banter once more. I’m relieved, the last thing I want to be is some reverent statue. 

Something inside me twists when the conversation turns towards home. Each wistfully relays details about the Shire, things that they are eager to return to. _They don’t know._ Like me, they’ll be drawn far away from home for a long time to come, at least if my dreams are in any way true. 

The conversation is broken by the return of Strider. I’m relieved to see that he’s taken a bath and cleaned up somewhat. 

“Lady Jude, I’m glad to see that you are well,” he nods to me kindly and I think I feel something in the way of an apology in his words. 

“You look better yourself,” I say. 

“I grew up here, it is nice to be home.” 

Home. That word again.

* * *

I’ve never seen so many odd-looking people in my life. Truly, I thought the group at the Prancing Pony was varied but the company arrayed at council of Elrond is downright bizarre. There are the dwarves; a group of short and stout men, each with a thick beard that is styled in a different fashion with braids or clips of metal. Next are the elves, each exuding the same radiance and impossible beauty that Lord Elrond does. I notice that they murmur amongst each other privately, casting disdainful looks at the dwarves.

I’m am relieved to be sitting next to Gandalf, Frodo, and Strider. Though I haven’t known them for long, they are the closest things to companions and allies I have in this world. 

I see two men hurry to sit beside the dwarves. I’m always happy to see other humans, it reminds me that though this world is different in almost every way from my own there are at least some things that I can recognize. I notice immediately that they are brothers. They both have the same chestnut hair and light brown eyes. The first one is slightly taller and looks younger, with more delicate features. The other has as slightly larger build, with a thicker beard as well. 

A horrible wave of déjà vu hits me. I’ve seen the shorter one before. His face was far paler, with creases of worry and regret that it doesn’t yet hold but I would recognize those eyes anywhere. I’ve seen the light fade from them over and over again. 

_Shit._ I see the younger brother catch my stare and no doubt look of horror, a crease of confusion forms between his eyebrows and I quickly tear my gaze away. 

Lord Elrond clears his throat and begins speaking. “Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-earth stands upon the brink of destruction. You will unit, or you will fall.” He pauses to let the words sink in, before continuing, “bring forth the ring, Frodo.” 

As Frodo steps forward and places the ring on the stone plinth, shocked murmurs spread throughout the party. 

“So, it is true,” the older brother declares, leaning forward. 

“The doom of man,” one of the dwarves declares in a grim tone. 

“It is a gift,” interrupts the man impatiently, “why not use this Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, held the forces of Mordor at bay.” His voice edges on anger as he continues, “by the blood of our people are your lands kept safe. Let us use this weapon against our enemy”!

Strider looks almost annoyed, “you cannot wield it, none of us can.” 

“What would a ranger know of this matter”? The man asks dismissively. 

Strider remains silent but one of the elves stands. “This is no mere Ranger. He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance Lord Boromir.” 

Another shock ripples through the crown. I stare at Aragorn who looks embarrassed, he kept that one under his hat. 

Gandalf clears his throat and breaks through the shocked silence, “Aragorn is right, we cannot use it. We have only one choice. The ring must be destroyed.” 

Destroyed? Surely it can’t be that easy.

* * *

It turns out it’s not easy at all. After a rather graphic display of brunt force from one of the dwarves, we were all told that the ring cannot be destroyed by any craft possessed at the table. 

It must be taken to “Mount Doom” a rather on the nose name for the place where it was created. A journey that, from the stunned and frightened looks of those at the council, is far from simple. 

Boromir is the first to voice doubts. “One does not simply walk into Mordor. Its black gates are guarded by more than just Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep and the Great Eye is ever watchful. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly.” 

Chaos descends at his words. Each member seems to have some idea or opinion as to who should go, how they would do it, or why it must or must not be done. 

Again, it is only Gandalf’s booming voice that can cut through the frenzy. “While we bicker among ourselves, Sauron’s power grows. No one will escape it. You will all be destroyed.”

At those grim words, the council finally subdues and those who are standing take sheepishly their seats once more.

I see Frodo shutter and tremble slightly before launching to his feet. “I will take it; I will take the ring to Mordor.”

I know something like this must have been coming. I turn to Gandalf who looks no less surprised, though his face is slightly stricken before he quickly speaks. 

“I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear.” 

Aragorn rises to his feet at this, “by my life or death I will protect you if I can, you have my sword.” 

The elf who spoke in Aragorn’s defense rises as well, “and you have my bow.”

At this, a determined look crosses one of the dwarf’s face’s and he stands, “and my axe.” He shoots the elf a smug look, as he has just won some unknown competition. 

Boromir looks around the council and makes a decision. “If this is indeed the will of the council, then Gondor will see it done.”

Dull horror sets in at those words. He can’t go, I can’t let this happen. I know that if I accept Boromir’s death I might as well accept my own. I’m not going to die, and neither is he. 

“No”! The word escapes my throat before I think of something more tactful. Lord Elrond looks furious while the rest of the council gawks at me. Boromir flushes, from embarrassment or fury, I am not sure.

“You have some objection Lady Jude”? Lord Elrond asks, articulating each word carefully and making it clear that I was not invited to give my opinion. 

I turn to Gandalf instead; he is the only one who could possibly understand. “Please,” I say, imbuing the word with as much unsaid significance as I can. 

He stares at me for a moment before nodding. “No doubt what Jude means is that the halls of Gondor would be bereft to lose a Captain such as yourself Lord Boromir. You are a first son and dear to the Steward. Let Lord Faramir go in your stead, for you cannot deny that your brother is your equal in spirit and honor.”

“I would never deny that,” Boromir answers, though he still looks angered. 

“Lord Faramir”? Lord Elrond asks. 

I catch a quick glance between the brothers before Faramir speaks. “Whatever is the will of the council.” 

“Then it is decided,” Gandalf says with a smile. 

I feel hot relief course through my body. This is what I needed. Boromir is proof that I can change some things for the better. 

Before I can feel too relaxed, Gandalf turns to me. “And of course, if Lady Jude is obliging, we would benefit greatly from her knowledge and skill.” 

Here it is, a fork in the road. I have a final chance to say no and choose safety and comfort. Instead, I take a shaky breath and nod. 

Lord Elrond and some others seem slightly disturbed by my addition and lack of apparent qualifications, but Gandalf’s word seems to hold a lot of sway. 

Lord Elrond rises, as does the rest of the company. “Ten companions, so be it. You shall be the ‘Fellowship of the ring,’”

A chill run through my body at those words. Something within me is pacified and I know I’ve made the right decision. Despite the risk and hardship, I will find my way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowza this one took me a while but I had a lot of fun,  
> I'm so sorry for potential spelling errors but right now my heart is telling me to post this and go to bed, I'll edit in the morning. Let me know what you think of that major character change in the fellowship, it will definitely make the dynamic and story a little different. As usual I love any feedback or theories. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	7. The Misty Mountains Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship leaves Rivendell.

The bravado and adrenaline that rushed through me when Lord Elrond announced the Fellowship quickly fades into nervous energy. It is morning in Rivendell, and in a few hours our group will depart to god knows where. 

I smile to myself, remembering the resolve with which Merry, Pippin, and Sam insisted that they be included despite rushing in uninvited. They didn’t seem afraid when they argued with Lord Elrond, simply determined to stay with their friends. God, what does that say about me? 

I shake my head, now is not the time to start having doubts. 

In my room, I find that some mysterious benefactor has laid out clothing and travelling gear for me. These are not the beautiful and airy dresses that were hanging in the closet. Instead, they appear to be simple and durable. I see sturdy blouses, tunics and boots. I’m prepared to jump for joy when I notice a pair of pants. “God I’ve missed you,” I croon, scooping them to my chest. 

I shed the dress quickly, stuffing it in the bottom of my travelling pack. I know there’s no reason to keep it, but something within me recoils at the idea of leaving it behind. It’s so soft and fine that it reminds me of a time when my life was devoid of long journeys and hardship.

I’m relieved to discover that the mechanics of pulling on a pair of pants aren’t any different in this world. There aren’t any weird buckles or ties to navigate, the clothing is almost normal. 

I turn to the mirror and pull my hair in a low hanging ponytail, securing the mass of curls with a leather band. With my hair pulled back, my new ears are on full display. They don’t look too bad, just out of place among my otherwise human features. As far as I’m concerned, the only thing that’s really changed is my height, and those ears. I haven’t gained any of the otherworldly beauty or wisdom of the elves I met in Rivendell. I’m comforted by those imperfections, something within me is still human despite it all. 

I nod at myself, trying to put on the best impression of a confident and qualified member of the Fellowship. “I’m really screwed aren’t I”? I ask my reflection, she stares back at me, looking scared shitless.

* * *

In the courtyard, you’d think there wasn’t some ominous threat to our existence. The sun is shining and I can hear the melodious trickle of the water over the rocks. For the one hundredth time that day, I wonder if I’ve made the wrong decision. 

I see Aragorn standing off at a distance, saying his goodbyes to Lord Elrond’s daughter. They aren’t embracing or anything like that, but from their closeness and the intensity in her eyes, I feel as if I’m invading a private moment by watching. 

I turn away quickly to where the hobbits have gathered. 

They greet me cheerfully enough; but I see some apprehension written on their faces as well. 

“That’s new,” I say, nodding to the sword hanging at Frodo’s waist. 

“My uncle Bilbo gifted it to me before we left, he said the blade glows blue when Orcs are close.” 

“Orcs”? I say, I remember the name from Goldberry’s lesson but she didn’t tell me much more. 

“Don’t let Aragorn hear that you don’t even know what Orcs are.” Pippin pipes up, a mischievous grin on his face, as if he means to tell him. 

Gandalf interrupts, a serious expression on his face. “Let us pray that Lady Jude never has need to know of them. They were elves once, taken by dark forces and ruined into something else. Now they are servants of Mordor.” 

“So, they don’t look like elves then”? My mind travels to those large and twisted creatures I saw in my dreams. 

“No,” Gandalf replies with a sigh, “though I suspect you’ve seen them somewhere before.”

I repress and shudder and quickly nod. 

Aragorn arrives, the elven man, whose name I learn is Legolas, is accompanying him. They are speaking softly in Sindarin. 

The next to join us is Faramir. I see him and Boromir embrace tightly and something in me clenches at that familiar gesture. I remember the close hugs I shared with my younger sister, Eva, before leaving for college after each break. I’d always promise to come back soon. I wonder if Faramir would make that vow to his brother knowing the risk of our journey. 

We are standing in awkward silence for a few moments, before Legolas of all people speaks. “I would trust a Dwarf to be late.” 

At those words, Gimli burst in, looking disheveled and slightly panicked. “I’m here, I’m here. Now can we be off before the grass grows around our feet”?

I repress a snort, with a company such as this, there won’t be a dull moment.

* * *

I lied, journeying for hours can actually get quite dull, especially if you don’t really know half of the group you’re travelling with. 

The country south of Rivendell is rugged and spacious. Most of it is made up of grey and trodden grass, cut by various rock formations. To my left, I see large mountains rising in the distance. They are blanketed in snow and foggy, slightly resembling the Alps but somehow managing to look more imposing. 

Gandalf breaks the silence occasionally to lay out parts of our route. “We must hold to this course west of the misty Mountains for forty days.” _Forty days!_ I’m almost annoyed at my dismay, I knew this wouldn’t be some camping trip that was over in a few weeks. 

“And after that”? I ask. 

Gandalf turns to me, “if our luck holds, the Gap of Rohan will still be open to us. From there, we turn east, to Mordor.” 

At those words, the party falls into glum silence again. _Mordor._

* * *

It is dark by the time we decide to rest for the night. Though earth is cold and flat, and my bedroll is thin, I drift off almost immediately. 

_The beast is larger than legends told me. Some say it resembles a man, but I don’t think so. I see nothing human or familiar about this thing. Its whip hisses and curls, dangerously close to my body. I flex my hands around my sword, I have strength as well_. 

_I feel the lash of the whip as it finally catches me, branding my flesh. I am falling_

_falling_

_falling_

_falling_

I cry out and sit up. The world is dark around me but I know that I am safe, the dream is over. I take in a shaky breath and curse. Something within me hoped that by changing Boromir’s fate, somehow, I would change my own. 

But the dream remains, a painful reminder of the constant danger that I am in.

In the darkness, I can somehow see more than I would have thought possible. The hobbits are all asleep, Legolas sits on a stone a few feet from the encampment, taking first watch. 

I shakily rise to my feet to relieve him of that duty. Technically, I have a few hours of sleep left before my turn comes up but I know there’s no chance I’m falling asleep again. 

I walk towards the rock and he turns to me, sensing my arrival. 

He looks mildly curious, but not surprised. 

“You do not sleep.” It’s a statement rather than a question.

“Bad dreams,” I mutter, sitting next to him.

“It is odd that you should dream at all,” he comments. 

“Why”? I ask apprehensively, did Gandalf say something? 

“Elves rarely require rest the way humans do, nor nourishment either. But I see you both eat and sleep the way a man does.”

“You mean you don’t need to sleep and eat”?

He smiles at this and that expression is almost normal, instead of the ethereal and distant mask most elves wear. “We do, just not as you do. We can spend days without rest and even longer before we feel hunger.” 

He looks into the distance for some time before speaking again, “Though I suspect that you are not like most elves.” 

I sigh, “what gave it away”? 

Its rhetorical question but he answers it anyway, “your manner of phrase, dress, and how much bread you consumed at dinner.” 

I laugh at that, it’s true that my appetite can sometimes rival Pippin’s. 

He hesitates before adding, “Aragorn spoke to me of your behavior at Weathertop.” 

“Oh, I’m not really sure what I can add, I was kind of out of it.” 

“It is impressive, you can perform _fëa_ healing yet you don’t know how to use your senses.”

I stare at him, “my senses”? 

“Close your eyes,” he instructs. 

I shut them dutifully, though I feel slightly ridiculous. 

“What do you hear”? 

I think, “there’s the faint sound of a stream, I hear an owl hooting, a lot of crickets and that’s about it.” 

“Now try again, but concentrate harder. Block out the large and obvious noises and think of the sound as a tapestry, each stitch adding to the picture you think you can see.”

I try not to roll my eyes as I concentrate again. The stream comes quickly and I strain to pick out particular elements. To my surprise, I find that I can hear the pebbles being gently carried downstream. I think of what Legolas said and I try to block out the noise of the stream. Next comes the crickets, I am surprised to realize that when I think past their chirping, I can hear the dry rustle of their legs. Next to me, I began to become aware of Legolas’s breathing, something that was entirely silent to me before. 

“Holy shit,” I open my eyes but the noises don’t go away. It’s all too loud, too much. It can’t be like this all the time, can it? 

He sees my confusion. “Now put the tapestry back together, slowly.”

I take a calming breath. The stream, the crickets, the owl. Suddenly, it’s just a normal night again. 

I gawk at him, “we can do that”? 

He nods with a smile. 

“Does this mean…I could hear any conversation that takes place nearby”? 

“You could, but you shouldn’t.” 

“Right,” I reply quickly. 

“I hope I do not regret teaching you that particular trick,” he says with a laugh at my expression. 

Perhaps not all elves are as stern and silent as Lord Elrond. 

“Thank you for showing me this, no one even told me it was possible.” 

“If there is more you wish to know, simply ask.” 

“Thanks,” I say again, genuinely pleased. 

“I believe your watch has begun; I will leave you in peace to fulfill your duty.” He dips his head and walks off.

I am left alone in the darkness, repeatedly weaving and unweaving the tapestry of sound.

* * *

At dawn, Gandalf makes the executive decision to allow the horses some rest while he plans the rest of the journey.

I almost assume that means we get a bit of extra rest as well, but Aragorn hauls me to my feet.

“You’ve no skill with a blade and we are headed straight for Mordor, you will train with the hobbits.”

It isn’t a request. I don’t bother trying to explain that I’ve never been particularly gifted at any physical activity and my best bet against an Orc would be probably be to find some rock to hide behind.

It is decided that Aragorn will train Merry and Pippin, while I will be taught by Lord Faramir. 

My heart sinks slightly at this, I know I have no reason to be nervous but I’ve never spoken to Lord Faramir and I’m bound to embarrass myself. Some selfish part of me wishes I could join the jovial banter of Aragorn and the hobbits. 

To his credit, Faramir keeps a neutral expression upon hearing this news. 

We both walk in silence towards the flattened training ground. I peer at him, trying to find some trace of boredom or annoyance but his face is annoyingly blank. I remember the flat and dutiful tone with which he agreed to join the Fellowship and wonder if he’s always like this. 

As if sensing my thoughts, he abruptly turns to me. 

“Draw your blade.” 

I fumble, momentarily surprised by the sudden request, but eventually manage to pull out the sword. 

He shakes his head tersely. “You hold it as if you are nervous, an adequate swordsman is practiced and calm, but most of all comfortable with their weapon.” 

I try to adjust the grip somewhat, how can I appear comfortable when I have no idea what I’m doing? 

He seems to notice my bewilderment. “Keep a firm yet relaxed grip, your arm can’t swim or react when it is rigid.” 

He demonstrates a fluid swim himself and I notice how languid his arm appears. 

Easy enough, I tighten my fingers around the pommel but relax my shoulder. I then attempt my own swing which lands the sword in the dirt. It’s a lot heavier than I thought it would be. 

If he’s at all amused or annoyed by my ineptitude, he doesn’t let it show. 

“Not too loose of course, remember that your weapon is heavy and do not arc downwards so much when you swing, you are not throwing a javelin.” 

I smile at this, “it would probably be easier to teach me that judging on how well this is going.”

His mouth tightens slightly but that is the only reaction I can see. “I am not one for jokes Lady Jude, perhaps we might simply continue with the lesson.”

I nod dully as realization sinks in, though he is hiding it well behind an air of indifferent civility, this man does not like me.

We continue on like that. Me making mistakes and him politely correcting them, never once letting that damn impenetrable mask slip or actually relaxing into any sort of conversation

Though I am no sportsman, I am a fast learner if the lesson is repeated enough. By the end of the session, I can at least hold my sword and attempt a halfway decent swing. 

Faramir even gives out a few compliments, apparently, I have a pretty fast reaction time, though I’m not sure if that’s due to me or my elven features. 

“Thank you,” I manage, as we head back to the encampment. 

He gives a curt nod before walking off to speak about some private matter with Gandalf. 

I sigh, on top of worrying about my impending mortality, finding a way back home, and the dangers of Mordor, I have to deal with someone who hates me. 

As I begin to pack up my bedroll and other supplies, I feel an odd tingling at the back of my neck. It is as if something is watching me, cool dread collects in the pit of my stomach and I immediately scan the soundings. There is an odd whisp of something in the air. At first, I think it’s a trail of smoke but as I focus harder, I can see multiple shapes within it. Its moving faster than a normal flock of birds. 

“What’s that”? I ask, pointing to the sky.

Gimli gives me a funny look, “nothing, just a whisp of cloud.” 

Legolas looks at him sharply before following my gaze, his breathe intakes sharply. “Crebain from Dunland”!

Aragorn looks alarmed, “hide”! 

He doesn’t need to say it twice, I grab my few belongings and duck behind a rock. Almost immediately, I can hear the leathery flapping of wings all around me. I hold my breath, waiting for the unbearable noises to abate. Finally, I hear a single harsh croak as they flap away. 

Though slightly disheveled, we are no worse for wear. Gandalf, however, looks stricken. 

“What the hell was that”? I am the first to break the silence. 

He turns his heavy gaze to me, “spies of Saruman. The passage South is being watched.”

He turns to stare off into the distance and I follow his gaze toward the mountains in the distance. 

“We must take the pass of Caradhras.”

* * *

My entire body is shaking and my eyes blinded. Though the walk up the mountains begin well, we were soon caught in a blizzard. There are specks of snow whirring through the air at every direction, whistling and a streaming through my fingers as I attempt to shield my face. The air is white and I can hardly see two feet ahead of me. It doesn’t help that path is quite narrow, with a sharp drop off the side of the mountain. I try to focus on each step ahead. 

I turn to glance back at the rest of the party, Legolas and I are slightly ahead, balancing on top of the snow and able to move more freely. The hobbits are wading up to their chests. I wonder how much longer we can continue like this.

A booming voice interrupts my thoughts and I look up. From the alarmed expression on Legolas’s face, I can tell he hears something as well. 

“There is a fell voice in the air,” he yells above the howling winds. 

Gandalf’s eyes widen in fear, “Saruman.” 

As he speaks that name there’s another echoing call and I can see a rock dislodge from the path ahead and hurl towards us. 

Legolas and I, being nearest to the it, react quickly. I throw my body toward the rest of the group, praying as I feel my fet leave the ground. 

Thankfully, I feel strong hands not so gently grab onto me and pull me to safety. 

I turn to see Faramir inches from me. I am suddenly aware that I am trembling slightly and I feel embarrassment course through me. Thankfully, he releases me quickly and steps away. 

“The path has ahead collapsed; we must turn back. We can make for the gap of Rohan.” His voice cuts through the storm and I am grateful then for his calm and matter of fact tone. 

Aragorn shakes his head, “the gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard.”

There is a cracking noise as more snow dislodges and plummets towards us. I duck reflexively but we are all covered immediately. The blanket is thick and stifling, I feel panic flare in my chest.

Coughing and heaving, I break a hand through the ice and cold to brush myself off. 

As I see others doing the same, I take a breath of relief and speak, “whatever we’re doing, can be make a decision soon? We’re sitting ducks out here.” 

Gimli shakes his beard off, trying to dislodge the snow that has clumped there. “If we cannot pass over the mountain, let us go under it. Let us go through the mines of Moria.” 

Something primal within me shudders at that name.

Gandalf looks slightly concerned as well, but turns to Frodo. “Let the ring bearer decide.” 

I can see the importance of the decision weighing heavily upon him before he answers, “we shall go through the mines.”

I try to calm myself. Whatever my fears may be, the mines of Moria can’t be worse than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh I think I felt my writing quality slip a little in this chapter, I'll admit I got a bit tired. Hopefully I can go back and edit this one a little to make it all flow better. As usual, let me know what you think or if you have any suggestions for improvement. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading.


	8. In Places Deep, Where Dark Things Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude and the Fellowship journey through Moria.

The day is drawing to a close and I can begin to see the faintest stars glinting in the sky when we finally reach the lake. There is a cool mist in the air and I can’t help but shudder slightly at the sight of the smooth expanse of black water. It seems to stretch southward as far as I can see, a black mirror that reflects the unfamiliar stars. 

As we make our way around the lake, I can finally make out a large cliff face, nestled between two great trees. 

Gimli’s eyes light up immediately and he draws in a breath of awe. “So, it is here, The walls of Moria.” 

“Walls”? I ask, there don’t seem to be any.

Gimli smiles at this, “it is a secret than can only be revealed by starlight lass.”

Starlight, we have a while yet before the stars really show. 

The rest of the Company seems content to settle on that bank next to the wall and wait. I turn uneasily to look at the black surface once more, something about it makes me nervous but I can’t quite explain why. 

It’s not the same sickening reaction I had to the presence of the Ringwraiths, more like an old warning or knowledge thrumming in the back of my mind. 

I know now that I shouldn’t ignore every odd feeling I have, there seems to be a connection between those and imminent peril, but I’m not sure how to explain this to any of the Company. Gandalf knows about my prophetic dreams, but would he risk moving our path again based on a gut feeling?

“Stare long enough into the darkness and something might look back.”

I whip around to see Legolas and my heart lifts with relief. 

“Do you ever have odd feelings about things, is that an elf thing”? It’s worth a shot asking. 

He studies me, seeming to guess that this is more than an ambiguous question. “We are sensitive to changes of nature but not naturally given to foresight or other abilities of the sort.”

“Oh,” I reply, trying not to let my disappointment show. For once, I’d just like there to be an easy answer to something. 

“Where are your people from if you don’t object to the question”? 

I smile slightly at this turn of phrase, so cautious yet the olive branch is clear. “My family is from a place called Boston.”

He nods, though clearly not recognizing the place, “Aragorn told be you hailed from a land far from here.”

“We’re further from my land than I thought possible.”

“And there are no elves from that land”?

I am surprised by the question; I knew Legolas thought me odd but I didn’t realize he could have guessed that much. I then remember, Aragorn knows some of my story and must have relied it to Legolas, his closest friend. 

“You must think that I am insane.”

He simply shrugs, “I have heard of stranger tales that hold some truth. I am sure there is some truth to be found in yours.”

So, at least he believes parts of my story. 

To my surprise, Legolas volunteers some personal information. “I have not been home for many decades.”

It is stated so simply yet with such longing. 

I stare at him. Sometimes I forget that beyond all the beauty and mystery, elves feel in the same way humans do. 

“How can you stand to be away so long”? I’ve only been gone from home for a few weeks but my heart aches beyond belief whenever I think about it. 

He turns to me, “sometimes we can learn to make new homes, even away.” As he speaks, I see his eyes flit towards Aragorn, I know they are great friends and something within me twists with jealousy. All this would be so much easier if I had someone I could love and trust the way they do. 

He leaves me with a chunk of stale bread and a swig of water, returning the small fire the Company has built.

I can see he’s making the effort to be kind to me, despite the fact we have almost nothing in common. Legolas wants us to at least be comfortable acquaintances if not eventual friends, Aragorn already treats me like a burdensome kid sister, and Gimli is kind and jovial to everyone.

The only member of the Fellowship that seems to avoid any chance of friendship with me is Faramir. My gaze once again drifts towards him. He’s sitting between among the hobbits. I see a rare smile at something Merry has said, it changes the usual serious and cool expression on his face and there are hints of the man he must be to his friends, to his brother. 

If I’m really going to be travelling with this group for months, I need to make some effort to get him to stop hating me. 

As I begin to formulate a plan, the last vestiges of the sunset disappear behind the mountains. Gimli lets out an excited cry and I rush back towards the blank cliff face.

Where there was once simply rock, I begin to make out a glowing inscription. 

The lines grow broader and clearer, forming a flowing arch of interlacing letters and symbols. 

Gandalf inspects them “These words are in the elven-tongue of the West of Middle-earth in the Elder days. A time long before Sindarin was spoke.” 

I lean closer, they are in a delicate and flowing script yet the letters are strangely familiar. Something in me stirs at the sight and I find myself opening my mouth, “it reads ‘the door of Durin, lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter.’”

Gandalf looks slightly taken aback before inclining his head, “so it does.” 

He gives me a troubled look and opens his mouth before deciding better. He shakes some train of thought away before continuing, “the meaning is quite simple. If you are a friend, speak the password and the doors will open.”

He raises his arms dramatically before speaking, _“annon edhellen, edro hi ammen.”_

Nothing. 

There is a collective sigh and everyone returns to their comfortable seats as Gandalf continues to chant various incantations. 

“Thinking of something miss Jude”? Sam politely asks.

“I’m just wondering why this reminds me of something from the New York Times crossword.”

“What’s a crossword”?

I smile slightly, and think of all the weekends I used to get up early and walk down to the kitchen to see my mom puzzling over some crossword clue, pencil in one hand and coffee mug in another. 

“A riddle of sorts from my land. That inscription uses the same tricky and vague language that a riddle would.” 

As the realization sinks in, I quickly rise to my feet. 

“Gandalf, what’s the Sindarin term for friend”? 

Gandalf looks confused but asnwers, “mellon.”

At that, the rock face silently divides in the middle and two great doors swing open, revealing a door of darkness deeper than night. 

That animal instinct in me again lashes out at the thought of entering that blackness, but Gandalf and Aragorn have already plunged in and I’ll be damned if I turn back now. 

Steeling myself, I step through the stone threshold.

* * *

Something is wrong, deeply wrong. I can feel it like a punch to the gut the second we enter. That horrible, odd sickness is back in full force, and the animal instinct within me is whimpering and pleading in the corner of my mind. 

I’ve never been more grateful for my elven senses. I couldn’t imagine being plunged in this total darkness while grappling with my sickening premonition. 

There are odd shapes scattering across the passageway, and as Gandalf breathes light into his staff, I can finally make out exactly what they are. 

Skeletons, dozens of them strewn about. Clearly there was a battle of sorts, each is punctured by arrows or knives. 

Faramir pales at this, “it is a tomb.” 

Gimli lets out a cry of anguish that echoes painfully off the walls of the cavern as Legolas leans down to pluck an arrow out of one of the corpses and I see his face become stricken. “Goblins”!

I take in a steadying breath; I can’t take this anymore. “We have to leave. Now.” My voice is steadier than I expected but carries the weight of my fear.

Faramir registers the look of fear on my face. “Let us make for the walls, quickly.”

We don’t need to be told twice. As we back towards the entrance, my ears prick at the sounds of something dredging up from the water. 

I cry out as a tentacle wraps around Frodo’s ankle and pulls him towards the water. His face is stricken in terror and I am immediately pushed aside by Faramir, who rushes forward to sever the tentacle holding Frodo, a grim look of determination on his face. Its breaks open upon the swing of his sword, wielded with much more force than he displayed in our practice. Frodo sags to the floor and I rush forward and pull him to safety. It all happens in a blink.

Aragorn charges past us to hack at the other writhing limbs that reach towards us. 

Peering further past the door, I can make out a dark shape beginning to emerge from the inky water. My heart lurches as the creature is revealed. It seems to be almost squid like, yet with horrifying black eyes and jaws that unhinge to display rows of teeth. 

“Get back into the mines,” Gandalf shouts. 

Legolas strings an arrow and fires at the creature as we race back into the tomb of Moria.

We are trapped.

* * *

We’ve been walking for a few hours over bridges and narrow along narrow paths. Every so often, I can hear faint clanging and rumbling bellow, of something in the depths of Moria. 

Gandalf breaks the silence occasionally, either telling Pippin to quite or commenting on the workings of Moria. “It’s a four day journey to the other side, let us hope that our presence will go unnoticed.”

I pray that it does, because that awful feeling within me has not abated. Throughout the silent journey through Moria, I’ve learned to dampen my anxiety somewhat but the knowledge that something is deeply wrong has not left me. 

Gimli is noticeably silent throughout the walk. I remember that the skeletons I see strewn about are his kinsmen, that this place wasn’t always an awful crypt for him. He must have memories of joyful times here. 

I shudder and try not to think about my own home. If I return will it be the same as I left it? Or will I face a surprise as rude as Gimli’s? I’ve been gone for almost a week now, mom, Ava, they must all think the worst by now. 

“You look grim,” Aragorn comments in a low voice.

“Well, this isn’t exactly a cheery place.”

“No,” he simply sighs. 

“You hadn’t been in Rivendell for ages and then suddenly showed up again,” at my words he glances warily at me but I plunge on, “was it how you remembered or different”?

He considers a moment; I’m used to Aragorn’s thoughtful silences by now. “I find things are rarely as we remember them, but those we leave behind always carry a piece of our heart.”

I let the words linger in silence. It’s odd but they seem to perfectly describe what I could not. It is as if there is a piece of me still stuck at home with my family. The parts of me that are here are different, harder and less human.

I don’t want to completely lose myself or change. When I go home, I want it to be as if I never left but something in me doubts things will be that easy.

Every time I give into the animal thing within me, every time I do something or know something I can’t explain, I feel parts of the old me slipping away and being replaced by that odd thing within me that is buried more deeply than the gold of Moria.

* * *

We eventually reach a great and silent chamber; the decision is made to make camp there for the night. Though I am not physically weary, I’m relieved to put an end to stressful day. 

No fire is made, though we all gather in a circle anyway, probably fearful of being alone in enduring darkness. 

Merry lights up a pipe of some sort of tobacco. Impulsively, I reach out to him.

“You want some”? He asks, surprise lighting his features.

“Can I”? I’m not a smoker or anything, but I just want something to take my mind off the horrible blackness of Moria. I remember bumming a cigarette off a college friend during finals, the relaxing inhale and exhale of smoke calmed my nerves somewhat. 

“I s’pose there’s no reason why not,” Merry cheerly declares, and hands the long pipe over to me

I take a deep breath of the smoke and immediately struggle not to choke. It’s much harsher than I remember the cigarette being. 

“Thanks,” I manage, immediately passing the pipe back. 

That wasn’t very calming.

“Shireweed is strong stuff,” Gandalf says, laughter brimming in his eyes.

Suddenly, the oppressive mood is lifted somewhat. 

Tentatively, people begin to talk. Merry tells us about the Green Dragon, which serves the best ale in Middle Earth.

At the mention of ale. Flasks are suddenly unclasped, and passed about.

I’m eager to try some of Aragorn’s whisky, which is apparently strong stuff given the light coughing it reduces Merry to. Unfortunately, Gimli is in rotation before me and demolishes half the flask, spirits drippling down his beard. I would be more annoyed but I remember he has good reason to drown his sorrows. 

“Here,” I am surprised to see Faramir offering me a wineskin. 

“Thanks,” I reply, after a rather awkward pause. 

I unscrew the cap and take a long swig. It’s rich with a nice spice to it, better than the cheap swill I’m used to at broke college grad parties. 

Pippin is carrying on an animated debate with Gandalf about which strain of shireweed is the best, which the rest of the company is listening to. 

I turn to Faramir. 

“Why don’t you like me”? I’m not usually one to ask a blunt question. In fact, my heart starts pounding the moment the words come out but I figure there’s no way that I’m ever going to get a satisfying answer unless I just come out with it. 

Faramir chokes slightly on his mouthful of wine, clearly taken off guard. 

I decide to plunge ahead since I’ve already embarrassed myself this much, “I know you’re uncomfortable around me, and we’ve hardly said three words to each other. We’re going to be journeying together for a while and I just want to know why.”

He looks annoyed and I can see him trying to formulate some polite response to shut me up before something shifts in his eyes. 

“I don’t know you Lady Jude, perhaps in your land everyone is comfortable and jovial with people they hardly know but that is not the way things are done in Gondor. Respect and amity are earned.”

I try not to roll my eyes, “come on, its more than that. I’m pretty sure you dislike me in fact.”

Now he really looks annoyed, and his voice lowers to a clipped tone. “Fine, if you wish to have this conversation now, I dislike that you sullied the honor of my brother. He is twice the man I am yet you insisted I be sent in his stead without explanation. Why should I have any reason to like or trust you after that”?

Each word is a like a blow, I should have known that my hasty actions at the council would have repercussions. Yet his reaction still seems extreme, does he truly believe that Boromir is twice the man he is? 

I rub my face. Suddenly, I am overcome again with the weariness of constantly having to explain and demure.

“Ask me anything and I promise I’ll tell you the truth,” I know there’s a chance he thinks I’m crazy or a liar but I’m tired of constantly covering my tracks. If he wants to know so badly, then he should be prepared to hear some unpleasant things. 

“Why could my brother not journey with you”? 

I take a breath, “Because I saw his death if he did.” 

Faramir looks hard at my face and I make sure to meet his gaze, though it is direct and uncomfortable. 

I see his eyes change, softening into surprise. Finally, he speaks again, “Gandalf believes your foresight to be true”? 

I nod and he relaxes somewhat, a look almost like shame crosses his face, “you were trying to protect him.” 

“I thought if I could save him, maybe things would go differently.” 

At those words, he looks uneasy once more, “what things”?

“I don’t know, it isn’t anything to do with you or the Fellowship.” 

“It’s about you then, and this faraway home you speak of.” 

I nod again, my throat tightening. 

He sighs, deflating a little and I see some weariness creep into his eyes as well. “I am sorry if I was curt with you, I thought your reasons to be less honest.” 

“Well,” I take another swig of the wineskin before offering him a tentative smile, “I don’t hold grudges.” 

Maybe my sight is off in the darkness, but I swear I almost see him smile back. 

For one precious night, I feel a little comfortable and safe.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,  
> This chapter is more a fluffy one so its a little slower but the next one will pickup more I promise. 
> 
> As usual, let me know what you think/if you have any constructive criticism. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	9. The Road Not Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moria.

Looking back on that wonderful night we passed in that dreadful place, something within me wishes I could have seen what lay ahead. I wish I could have been shown more than a few vague dreams.

If I had known then what was in store for us, what the dwarves had awoken deep in the caverns of Moria, I would have held onto those brief moments of happiness with more ferocity. But it all slipped so quickly away, like sand between loosened fingers.

* * *

Gandalf is puzzled yet again. Having walked for most of the day, the path has suddenly split into three passages. 

At this, Gandalf pauses, frowning. “I have no memory of this place.”

At this, “The Road Not Taken,” rises, unbidden to the front of my mind. I can’t help myself, I’m an English major after all. 

_Two roads diverge in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both and be one traveler, long I stood._

I can’t remember the rest, and there are three roads instead of two, but I can’t help but smile to myself at the memory of it. 

We do stand for a long time as Gandalf thinks about which way to go. 

“You’re smiling,” Faramir comments. I don’t blame him, its odd to be smiling right now but it’s been so long since I’ve had the luxury to think about poetry. 

He doesn’t ask but I speak anyway, “‘two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference’.” 

I see the marvel of someone hearing the words of Robert Frost for the first time. His face lights up slightly. But I don’t want to take credit for Frost’s poem.

“it’s a famous poem from my land, not my own words” I quickly explain. 

“It is a beautiful ballad and I thought the songs of my own people to be the loveliest.” 

I blink, I guess our little chat last night did mean something, I’ve heard more from him today than in weeks.

“Ah, that is it!” Gandalf exclaims, interrupting my thoughts, “the path less traveled must surely be the route from away from the heart of Moria.” 

With a cheerful nod towards me, he confidently strides towards the passage that is more covered in cobwebs and dust. 

I don’t have the heart now to tell Gandalf the true meaning of those lines.

* * *

The road less trodden leads us towards another great chamber. 

We pass under an arched doorway into a black and empty space. Gandalf blows a little more light into the end of his staff, large shadows leap off the walls. 

His eyes grow, “the great realm and Dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf, now in ruins.” 

The stones are crumbled, and what finery that may have once adorned the walls has long since been plundered by someone. 

Ahead of me, I see a smashed wooden door, still embedded with black arrows. The skeleton of something is lying against it, the creature does not resemble the dwarf corpses I’ve seen. It is much smaller and twisted in an odd and unnatural way. 

“Goblin,” Legolas exclaims. 

I see horror flit anew across Gimili’s face. Though we have been walking through the ruins of Moria for some time, perhaps some part of him hoped against all odds that the Goblins had left Dwarrowdelf untouched. 

Before we can stop him, he rushes through the doorway into the chamber ahead. With a sinking heart, I follow. 

Inside, a narrow shaft of sunlight lights the room from a small hole near the roof. Dwarf and Goblin skeletons are piled high. The light falls directly upon a stone table in the middle of the room. 

At first, I think it is a table of some sort but as I approach the horrible truth is revealed. 

Gimli falls upon the grave, crying out in sobs. 

Gandalf’s grave voice rings out as he reads the inscription, “‘here lies Balin, son of Fudin, Lord of Moria’ He is dead then, it is as I feared.” 

As Gandalf lifts the rotting remains of a book from the white slab, I feel that animal thing within me twist again in fear.   
I grab Aragorn’s arm and whisper to him urgently, “we cannot stay here Aragorn, something bad is happening I can feel it.”

Gandalf begins reading from that moldering heap, “’they have taken the bridge and the second hall; we have barred the gates but cannot hold them for long, the ground shakes, drums in the sleep. We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark. They are coming’.” 

_A shadow moves in the dark_ , the creature in me gives a sharp twist at those words and I fall to my knees. 

“Jude”! Legolas rushes to my side and I let him pull me to my feet, concern dotting his features. 

Suddenly, I hear loud clattering. Pippin is frozen in fear and I see that he has managed to dislodge the armored skeleton that was balancing at the edge of the Well. 

Each second it clangs and bounces painfully off the sides of the Well seem to stretch into hours.

We collectively hold our breaths, waiting. 

I think I hear it first, or maybe Legolas because we both share the same panicked expression. A low booming rises from the depths below, growing larger until I can see that the rest of the company has heard it as well. 

I turn and see a cold, blue glow emanating from Frodo’s sword. _Orcs_. 

“Prepare yourselves,” Faramir cries, unsheathing his sword in a fluid motion. 

“Get back and stay close to Gandalf,” Aragorn instructs the hobbits. 

I hear a piercing cry echo from outside the door. 

Faramir whitens at this, “that is a cave troll.” 

Aragorn considers this new information, “perhaps it would be best if you stayed close to Gandalf as well,” he says, turning to me. 

I hurry to the side of Sam, there’s no shame in survival and I barely know how to hold my sword. 

The only one who doesn’t seem completely frozen in fear is Gimli, who snatches up two rusty axes and leaps onto the tomb. 

“Let them come! There is one Dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath”! 

The door crashes open in a sudden shower of wooden fragments. I see at least twenty Goblins charge into the tomb. 

They are hideous, small and almost spider-like, twisting and crawling towards us. 

I think the worst part may be the noises they make, clacking and whistling at a hair-raising pitch. I shudder and duck further behind Gandalf. 

Over his shoulder, I see what can only be the cave troll thunder in. It is larger than any creature I’ve seen, with tough and leathery skin and an almost comically small head. Its eyes are beady and mean and its mouth opens to reveal coarse teeth. It’s almost salivating. 

The Fellowship springs into action. I see Aragorn and Faramir wade through a mass of goblins, brutally cutting at them with their swords. It occurs to me this is the first time I’ve truly seen them in action. Despite my fear, I can’t help but feel some awe at watching them. They are killing yet the way they wield their blades, it’s almost more of a graceful dance than a horrible slaughter. 

Legolas is in a league of his own, rapidly firing deadly arrow after arrow into Goblin throats. Gimli is the opposite of Legolas’s cool, mechanical style. He cries out in fury with each kill, as if he is putting his axe into the face of the very Goblin who slayed Durin.

If it weren’t for the sheer number of them, I would have almost felt safe. 

Of course, I am not immune to the danger. Eventually, Gandalf must join the battle to make a dent in the wave of foes. 

I whisper a silent prayer to myself. _Just try to think of them as spiders, some unhelpful part of my brain suggests._ I can’t really wield my sword, but I notice one of the fallen Goblins has a club clutched in its claw. That might work.

I lift it up and test its weight, giving it an experimental swing. Not bad. 

All too soon, I am forced to put it into action. One of the smaller and meaner looking Goblins sees that I am alone, and scurries towards me with a satisfied expression. 

I shriek, avoiding the arc of one of its knives. Faramir had said that I was good at ducking. I twist and turn away from its blade for some time before realizing that I need to act. The next time it brings its knife towards me, I duck out of the way and take advantage of its stance to bring the club down upon its head with the greatest force I can summon. 

I am surprised to feel the skull give in easily, surprised and sickened. 

I turn to my right to see that even Sam has been forced into the fray, swinging his iron pan to catch the face of an unlucky Goblin. He grins at me, “I think I’m getting the hang of this.” 

I hear another horrible shriek from the troll and turn to see it towering over Frodo. 

Faramir and Aragorn react quickly. Faramir brings his sword across the back of the troll’s calf while Aragorn leaps onto its back, slashing at its tough skin. It lets out another hideous cry, but seems even more determined. 

I can only scream as Frodo is lifted off his feet by the tip of the cave troll’s spear and slammed against the wall with a sickening crunch. 

Sam lets out a cry of anguish before leaping at the troll himself, the rest of the hobbits follow suit. 

Legolas finally lets out an arrow and the cave troll slowly topples to the ground, dead. 

I feel numb and horrified, Frodo lies on the ground, pale and unmoving. Aragorn immediately rushes to his side.

Amazingly, I hear Frodo let out a weak cough and take in a huge breath. 

“He’s alive,” Sam breathes. 

I let out my own sigh of relief. 

“I’m alright. I’m not hurt,” Frodo solemnly declares at Aragorn’s fussing. 

“You should be dead. That spear would’ve skewered a wild boar”! Aragorn looks pleased but confused. 

Gandalf slowly walks towards Frodo, “I think there’s more to this hobbit than meets the eye.” 

I see Frodo open his shirt to reveal a light, silvery chainmail. I don’t even see a puncture mark from the spear. 

“Mithril,” Gimli declares. 

I want to laugh I’m so relieved, but another shaking boom cuts through our moment of happiness. 

Gandalf’s eyes fill with dread, “to the bridge of Khazad-dum”!

* * *

We run through long passage after long passage. Every so often, I can feel the ground shake and terror leaps anew in my breast. 

Behind me, I can hear the skittering of Goblins. Every so often, I see one or another crawling up the walls in an attempt to get in front of us.

Thankfully, even the hobbits’ legs are longer than a Goblins, and they are no match for Legolas and I. Not for the first time today, I am thankful for my newfound elven endurance.

I know the girl who nearly failed PE in seventh grade would not have stood a chance running this long. 

We finally reach the largest chamber I’ve seen yet, my heart sinks. There must be hundreds of thousands of Goblins waiting for us there, their eyes glimmering like black beetles in the shadows. With the sheer bulk of them, there’s no way we can make it out.

But it can’t end like this. There must be more, I’ve seen more than this. In my dreams, I don’t die in this darkened and horrible place. 

I see the same realization and dread that has hit me reflected on the faces of the rest of the company. 

Faramir solemnly unsheathes his sword, bringing it to his face before nodding to the rest of the group. His look is clear, he means to die standing and fighting. 

Oddly enough, I see a faint, red light emerge from the depths of the mine. A deafening roar suddenly fills the chamber, it is no Goblin sound. At that noise, something within me twists and cries out. 

The guttural cry of warning does not sound like me, yet it escapes, strangled from my throat. I immediately lean over and heave up my meager breakfast onto the cold, stone floor. 

The ground shakes again and an unearthly rumble sounds. The Goblins immediately begin to race away, twisting up the pillars and escaping into the heights of Moria. Gandalf looks almost as ill as me. “A Balrog, a demon of the ancient world. This foe is beyond any of you! Run! Quickly”!

I somehow force my legs to work, though my whole body is shaking and quivering. I catch a brief sight of it before we break into another sprint.

My world spins. The beast, the worst creature of my dreams, has stepped out of them to face me.

* * *

Every detail is as I remembered, yet no less gut wrenchingly horrifying. 

It is taller than any animal I’ve seen, with a great mane of flames crowning its horned head. In one hand it clenches a blade and in the other a fiery whip. The whip that I’ve felt over and over again. 

This is it then, I am going to die. The thought calmly rings out in my mind as I race with the others. There’s no point in running, I know the dream well enough. I face it, I fight it, I die. The sequence never changes. 

I close my eyes and think of my family, I’ll never see Ava again or mom. I’ll never watch TV, take a hot shower, or eat strawberry ice cream. I will cease to exist, I’ll be nothing. But maybe that’s what needs to happen. The sudden realization hits me like a truck, perhaps this death, though horrible, will be what brings me back home. 

There’s a chance it won’t though, there’s a chance I’ll just meet nothingness. And right now, I’m so frightened that I think I’d rather risk another ten years in this strange place than willingly walk into that void.

Aragorn hesitates, I can see that he wants to stand and fight rather than be caught and killed while fleeing. 

“Do as I say,” Gandalf commands, “lead them on, the bridge is near.” 

I see the bridge now, rising from a chasm so depth the bottom is obscured in mist and blackness. 

Damn. The bridge is broken in one section, leaving a fatal drop to those who cannot make the jump. 

Aragorn makes quick work throwing the hobbits and hesitates at Gimli, who gives him a murderous look. “Nobody tosses a dwarf”! He declares, before jumping himself. He’s lucky Legolas is there to drag him up by the beard. 

Faramir goes next, and my heart skips a beat before I see his him land safely on the other side. 

I take a step back before jumping myself, landing easily on the other side. 

The last of the bridge crumbles away after I am on the other side, I see the Balrog smash through the wall and spread its wings. 

Gandalf’s face is ashen and resigned, “over the bridge, fly”! 

We race towards the next slender bridge, hurrying recklessly over it. Something in my stop and I turn to look at Gandalf, who has paused at the center of the bridge, staff in one hand and sword in the other. 

_No_. He can’t face the Balrog, not him. That’s not the way it happens. 

I want to run with the others, I want to be safe and let him but I can’t. I am not a brave person. I’m really not. But I’ve dreamed this so many times, that animal thing in me is crying out, rearing to fight it. What if I gave into it? I’ve been sick with anticipation for so long, now it’s time to fulfill this, to see it to the end. 

I make a start forward. 

Gandalf’s voice rises out above the groan and boom of the beast. “You cannot pass”!

The Balrog puts one foot on the bridge and draws up to its full height, its black and flaming coat sharply contrasting with Gandalf’s small, grey form. 

“I am a servant of the secret fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udun.”

At these words, its wings spread from wall to wall. 

Gandalf raises his voice, “Go back to the shadow”! The Balrog slashes at him with its heavy blade, which Gandalf meets with own sword. 

I have to end this, that thing in me has won and I’m tired of fighting it. I take another step before something, _someone_ grabs me and hauls me away. 

I fight, cursing and kicking but the grip is strong. 

“Are you mad”? I hear Faramir’s voice shouting in my ear but there’s a dull ringing in my head and I can’t register his words. 

Gandalf’s voice again cuts through my haze, “You shall not pass”!

Gandalf lets out a cry as he summons the last of his strength to bring his staff down upon bridge. A white flame springs up and the bridge breaks right under the Balrog’s feet. For a moment, I think that it is over. I see the Balrog plunge through the air while Gandalf remains trembling on the lip of the broken bridge.

But then, it happens. It should have been me being caught by the end of that flicking whip. It should be hanging on the edge of the bridge by my fingertips. But it is Gandalf, it is our leader. 

Frodo lets out a guttural cry, “Gandalf”! 

His piercing blue eyes fiercely meet mine, “fly you fools”!

His grip loosens and he falls into the depths bellow.

* * *

Numb, I am only slightly aware of being pulled through the archway by Faramir. Suddenly, it is daylight and we are standing on a grassy hilltop. 

The hobbits collapse onto the ground sobbing, but I feel a different emotion rise within me.

I am angry and guilt-stricken, it crushes and crashes down on me suddenly. I could have saved him; I could have perhaps saved myself and found some way home. But I have failed. 

“Jude”? Faramir’s voice cuts through the noise in my mind. 

“You bastard”! I yell, lunging at him. 

It’s almost worth it just for the look of sheer surprise that lights his face. 

Aragorn catches me quickly and for the second time that day I am hauled away. 

“We don’t have time for this,” he hisses angrily, “by nightfall these hills will be swarming with Orcs. We must reach the wood of Lothlorien.”

* * *

Two paths have diverged. I’ve taken the road not traveled, the one that my dreams told me wouldn’t happen. I’ve lived and Gandalf has died. I can’t trust anything anymore, not even myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew,  
> This one was a little intense but I really enjoyed writing it. Please let me know what you think about this chapter, I've been looking forward to writing it for a long time. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	10. Answers In the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude learns some really important things about herself and her situation while dealing with the guilt of Gandalf's death.

In numb silence, we walk for the better part of the day. No one has yet ventured to speak about what happened in Moria. 

I can’t even think about it without bringing about another pang of guilt and confusion. I no longer feel anger, simply an awful fatigue that I haven’t experienced since I was entirely human. It is as if the weight of the world has come crashing down on my shoulders. I haven’t yet dared look at Faramir, who I remember lunging at hours ago in a grief-driven frenzy.

Deep down, I know that it isn’t really his fault that Gandalf died. I was the one who was supposed to slay the Balrog yet I failed to even fight it. Faramir shouldn’t have even been able to stop me. 

Yet here we are, walking for miles to some cursed forest. 

As my thoughts churn, I can finally make out a vast tree line up ahead that can only be the edge of Lothlorien.

* * *

The trees of Lothlorien are different from those in the Old Forest. Instead of being bent and gnarled with age, they are tall and covered in golden leaves. The forest floor below my feet is strewn with yellow flowers and there is the same eerie calm that I felt in the Old Forest pervading the air. It is again as if the trees are watching our every footfall.

Gimli looks just as uneasy as I feel. “Stay close young hobbits, they say a Sorceress lives in these woods.” 

Legolas lets out a snort at this and shakes his head. Gimli grows more vehement, “all those who look upon her fall under her spell and are never seen again.” 

He draws himself up as a fighting look enters his eyes, “well, here’s one dwarf she won’t ensnare so easily.” 

I blink, a second ago we were calming walking through the forest, now we are surrounded by armed elves. I sniff, an error is notched inches from my nose.

The leader of the company steps forward. He is handsome, in an arrogant sort of way, with smooth blond hair and those inhuman elven features that I lack. 

He looks disdainfully upon us, taking in the cobwebs and filth of Moria that still hang on our clothing. I can’t remember the last time I bathed, and shudder to think of how much I stink. 

“Tell the Dwarf he breathes so loud we could have shot him in the dark.” Surprisingly he turns to me, “and the fair one has the heaviest step I have heard from an _elleth_.” 

My mouth nearly hangs open at his self-satisfied smirk, I can’t tell if his words are flirtatious or insulting. I really don’t have the mental capacity to deal with this on top of everything else. 

Thankfully, Aragorn steps in, _“Haldir-o Lorien, mín tul-hi an cín help. Mín baur cín protection.”_

Whatever he said, it seems to have pacified Haldir somewhat. He holds up his arm sharply and their bows relax. 

Gimli, however, looks no less relaxed. “Aragorn,” he hisses, “these woods are cursed, we should go back.” 

Haldir looks amused at this, “you have entered the realm of the Lady of the Wood. You cannot go back.” 

I feel like shouting, we are trapped yet again.

Faramir stiffens at this but remains polite, “will you then take us to your lady”? 

Haldir sniffs, “the halflings, Prince Legolas, the _elleth_ , and the noble blood of Gondor are welcome to walk freely. The Dwarf, however, must have his eyes bound before entering out sacred lands.” 

“What”? I finally burst out. I am so tired, more than I’ve been in my life and this pompous fool is drilling us over elven technicalities. “Do you know what we’ve been through, what we’ve lost to get here”? My voice nearly cracks and I hate the emotion that creeps through. 

Haldir straightens, “I apologize for any offense, but no dwarf has ever gazed upon Lothlorien Wood freely, it is not our way.” 

Gimli finally loses it, “I will not be blindfolded in this cursed wood”! 

A hint of anger twists at Haldir’s features, “then you shall not be permitted entry.” 

Gimli considers this, glancing at Legolas. “If I must be covered, let the elf be as well.”

Legolas opens his mouth, looking scandalized. 

For god’s sake, I can’t take this anymore. “Fine, I agree,” I cut in quickly before Legolas can respond and Gimli can object that he didn’t mean me. 

Haldir looks almost grateful as he secures the cloth over my eyes. 

I am again plunged into darkness. I think of Gandalf eyes as he fell into the abyss, was he as blind as I am now to what lay at the bottom? Or could he see his own doom, helpless to stop it.

* * *

We walk a few miles, Haldir guiding me by the arm, before we stop. My blindfold is roughly removed and I try not to gasp at the sight below. 

We are standing on a hill top. In the vista below, I see many of the same golden trees that I gazed upon earlier, but these are larger and somehow more beautiful. The leaves gleam and almost glow in the lazy rays of the late afternoon sun. Erected amongst and even in them are different houses, each varying in size and grandeur. A city built around the trees, not in spite of them. 

We make our way down a softly trodden path the largest house I can see, nestled among the oldest looking trees. 

Standing outside are two figures. I thought Elrond to be intimidating in his otherworldly grandeur, but the elvish woman standing before us is something else entirely. For one thing, she is beautiful. Her hair the same gold as the leaves on those trees, while her eyes are the clearest blue. It isn’t just that her features are delicate or perfect though, there is a certain aura of lightness and goodness that pervades from her and something else, something wise and ancient behind those eyes. 

The man that stands next to her is splendid, though slightly diminished in her presence. I almost feel bad for him but then remember that he gets to be married to this woman. 

Haldir bows his head, “you have the honor of standing among Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien and Lord Celeborn,” 

Celeborn is the one who opens his mouth to address us in a clear and light tone, “nine there are, yet ten there were set out from Rivendell. Tell me, where is Gandalf, for I much desire to speak with him.” 

I feel that knife of guilt twist in me again, the try to push it away but Galadriel’s eyes catch mine. 

Her voice is soft yet musical, “he has fallen into shadow.” The words are simple yet I shudder at them.

Darkness indeed, miles of it. 

Her eyes meet mine again, and suddenly I hear that soft voice ringing in my mind. 

_You, wanderer, are more lost than you could fathom. What answers could you find in my mirror, what answers should you find?_

It’s impossible, yet I am sure that it is her voice in my head. Despite this, her eyes give no indication of what she has silently spoken to me. 

Around me, I sense the discomfort and fear of my companions growing. Is she speaking to them as well? 

In spite her ominous words, Galadriel lightens, “tonight you will sleep in safety among the trees of Lothlorien. May you take peace and respite from the difficult road ahead.” 

There’s nothing I want to do more than lay down and sleep, escape from the what haunts me, yet I sense my dreams will grant me no reprieve.

* * *

I’ve never heard a more beautiful sound in my life. I want the most beautiful sound I’ve heard to be sister’s laugh, or my mom’s comforting voice after a long day, or maybe just the splash of my morning coffee.

But no, now it is words sung in a language I can’t understand, clear and full of sorrow. 

We are all lying on the soft, mossy floor of Lothlorien, listening to the unseen elves singing in the distance. 

Legolas is the first to softly speak, “it is a lament for Gandalf, they sing of his cherished deeds.”

We are all silent for another moment before Sam breaks the spell of grief, “well I hope they’re saying something about his fireworks. Finest in all of the Shire they were.” 

I nearly smile at this; I can’t imagine whatever those elves are saying has anything to do with fireworks. “What about the fact that he’s old yet can out drink and out smoke all of us combined”?

Aragorn finally breaks a smile at my comment, “I doubt the words of the Lothlorien recount such deeds.” 

Eventually, everyone in the party has shared some story about Gandalf. The man who always left a room in laughter or puzzlement. 

Only Frodo remains silent. I remember his clear agony in Moria, he hasn’t said much to anyone since then. His face has grown in pallor since we begin our journey, now it is tense and always worried. His wide eyes seem to constantly be staring at some distant point while his hands distractedly play at the band around his neck from which the ring hangs. 

For him, Gandalf must have been one of the only ones to truly comprehend his pain and burden, he must feel so alone now. 

Gandalf was the only one who really knew about me as well, the whole and awful truth. He had promised that we would find the answers together, now I’m not sure if my journey has any point to it. Can I really stay with the Fellowship knowing that I may not get back home? I feel uneasy leaving, I’ve have grown to care about each of them in my own way, even Faramir, despite his initial coldness and my subsequent anger towards him. 

But the guilt of Gandalf’s death still hangs on me, gnawing away. I could never really explain to them why I feel this immense pain, but I still can’t quite stomach joking and talking with them knowing that I could have stopped it all. 

I notice a lull in the tentative laughter and conversation, Faramir is nervously looking at me and I realize I must be quite obviously zoning out. 

From his expression, I know he wants to talk to me, to try to mend things. Something in me wants that too, I no longer feel any anger towards him. But there’s something else in me that isn’t quite ready to talk about it, and looking at him summons even more feelings of guilt and sadness. 

“I’m a little tired,” it’s all I can manage to say and we both know its bullshit. 

I probably won’t sleep tonight, every time I close my eyes I see Gandalf plunge into that all-encompassing darkness. Even if I did manage to dose off, I’m more frightened of what might greet me in those dreams than of a restless night.

* * *

A few hours into the night, I hear her voice again. 

_Do you seek answers wanderer? Or perhaps you prefer darkness to clarity_

_What answers could you give me?_ I demand. 

_Things that were, things that are, and sometimes, things that have not yet come to pass. Though I suspect you are familiar with such riddles, dreamer._

I sit up with a start. Somehow, my feet know where to take me. 

I come to a clearing near a softly flowing stream. In the center stands a low stone pedestal, carved like a branching tree, on which sits a shallow silver basin. She stands there, her white dress glowing in the moonlight. 

Her voice rings out, this time outside of my head. “Will you look in the water, dreamer”? 

I hate how wobbly my response is, yet I can’t keep the tremor out, “will I see him”? I can’t bear to, I can’t see Gandalf’s death again, I know it would be enough to truly break me.

Pity crosses her face; the emotion almost humanizes her unearthly features. “You carry a heavy heart.” 

God, she feels sorry for me, when I could have stopped it. I don’t deserve this. For the first time since I was flung into this situation, I feel my eyes fill and tears spill over my cheeks.

Once it starts, I can’t stop. My shoulders shakes as I cry. I cry about Gandalf, about myself, about the unfairness of it all. Galadriel simply watches and waits. 

Finally, I have relaxed enough to look back up at her. She meets my gaze and nods before leaning forward to pour water into the basin from a silver jug. Immediately, a soft glow rises from the surface. 

As I stand, preparing myself to look, her hand catches mine. “Even the wisest cannot tell what you will face.”

It is a kind warning, but I know that right now I need something I can be sure of, some answers. 

I lean to inspect the mirror’s surface, at first it simply holds the night sky reflected in the water. Then, it changes. The sky fades in the rippling surface to reveal something else. I see the Ringwraith from Wathertop again, though this time he is perched on a scaled and wormlike creature, sweeping into battle. 

The mirror ripples again, and I see Faramir and his brother tightly embracing.

The water shifts, my heart clenches and I immediately want to look away because it is that thing, the Balrog. 

Something within me stirs in recognition at the sight of that creature. But I am not fighting it. Instead, it is an elvish warrior with golden hair. He tightens his fingers around the sword, pausing once to look back upon the fleeing people around him before steeling himself to face it.

Every twist, every turn, every flash of the sword is the same as how I remembered it from my dreams. But it can’t be, because this man is not me. But there he is, reflected in the surface of that mirror, moving in the same way. 

I let out a cry and pull away, I can’t take anymore. 

Galadriel knowingly watches me. 

“Who was that”? I manage. 

“that was you.”

The reply is simple, yet I feel the air rush from my lungs. The Balrog wasn’t dream of something to come, it was a memory. I’ve called it the animal thing in me, the instinct, the odd thrum, but it wasn’t that at all. It was something else, someone else, inside of me this whole time. 

I take in a shaky breath, “who was I”? 

She simply shakes her head, “it is not your time yet.”

I clench me teeth, “I need to know, this has been haunting me for as long as I can remember.”

“Such a knowledge would break you at this moment, would you seek answers that you could not yet understand nor accept”?

“I don’t know how to be this way, whether to give into whatever he is or to fight for whatever’s left of me,” I take a shaking breath, “I am lost, don’t you understand that”? The words come out in a tangled mess and I am on the verge of tears again.

Galadriel’s hand finds mine, “not all those who wander are truly lost Jude.”

I blink at those words. I had thought that I was lost, that I was trying to find a way back home this whole time. I thought my whole purpose here was to get back. Maybe it was him all along, guiding me here, to his own home. 

I sink, deflated to the forest ground, “there was nothing I could have done.”

She shakes her head sadly, “no, Mithrandir’s fate was written.” 

I come to a slow realization, “but there are some things I can change, some ways I can help.”

She inclines her head. 

A small ember of hope I’d thought had died flares up again, “and perhaps I can return home after I’ve done what I can”?

She looks at me cautiously, “I truly do not know, yours is a case I’ve not ever seen.”

In that regard, she seems just as confused as Gandalf. I’m not sure what to make of everything I’ve heard, how to even begin processing, but I know that I’m not going to be finding out any more tonight. I manage to get to my feet and nod at her, “thank you for telling me more.” 

She gives me a sad smile, “sleep, dreamer, with a lighter heart.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,  
>  So this one was kind of an important but difficult chapter to write. Let me know if any of you have really figured out anything about Jude from Galadriel's mirror. As always, let me know what you think about the fic/what could be improved.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	11. A Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude gets some much needed rest.

_I am standing in a great, white city. The buildings are large and beautiful, rising to pointed turrets in the sky so tall I think that they could touch the clouds. I know this place; this is my home and the home of my kinsmen._

_A woman rushes to my side and I resist the urge to reach out to her, her eyes are soft and her hair the color of night and curled at the ends. I think about winding those dark strands between my fingers. But no, there will be time enough for such things._

_As she smiles at me, I consider speaking, perhaps today will be the day. But a strange fear grips me suddenly. A shadow passes over the sky and my heart falls. Nothing will ever be as it was._

I wake gradually, my eyes adjusting to the golden light that filters through the canopy. The dreams have been…different ever since I gazed into Galadriel’s mirror. I’ve seen more and more of that man’s life, my life I suppose. 

Instead of simply the Balrog, I see his friends, his family, that woman. Its nicer than the usual Orcs and slaughter, but I feel as if I’m prying, looking at something intimate that I shouldn’t be. These are mundane slices of someone else’s life. I know he’s a part of me, Galadriel made that clear, but whatever he is I still don’t feel as if I have a right to see these things. 

There’s another reason I feel uneasy, the emotions in those dreams are much stronger than I’m used to. It is as if he has burrowed even closer to my own feelings, every time I see that woman, I experience the pang of love and loss over and over again. 

I have to remind myself that _I_ don’t really know her, that she’s probably not even alive today and means nothing to my current life. 

We’ve stopped in Lothlorien for a few days now, to recover our strength and the necessary supplies to continue our journey. Gandalf’s death still hurts, but knowing that there was nothing I could really do has stopped it from haunting me so much. I see that though he is not forgotten, the other members of the Fellowship seem to have regained some of their cheer and energy as well. 

This short reprieve has been good for us.

* * *

“Sleep well”? Merry asks. I flush, somewhat embarrassed, I see that it is closer to midday than morning and everyone else seems to have gotten up and seen to one task or another by now. 

“You should have woken me,” I scold, pretending to be annoyed. 

“Didn’t want to, these days you seem to be really enjoy whatever you dream about.”

I flush at this; can they tell what I’m dreaming about? It’s true, some of my (or his) older memories seem to be quite colorful, though I’m not sure why they’re resurfacing now. 

“Do you know where everyone is”? I decide to change the subject. 

He shrugs, “Frodo is off talking with the Lady of the Wood, he does that a lot nowadays. As for Sam and Pippin, I think they were talking about scrounging up a second breakfast if you’re interested.” 

I sigh, “oh Merry, have I told you how much I love hobbits”? 

“You can tell me again,” he says, grinning.

* * *

After breakfast, I decide it’s time to get some groveling out of the way. I’ve already apologized to Aragorn for acting beastly in Moria and he simply pretended as if he didn’t know what I was talking about, but Faramir, that will be more difficult. 

“Do you know where Faramir is”? I ask Sam, he always seems to be conveniently away whenever I’m near the campsite. 

Sam exchanges a nervous glance with Pippin, “I think he mentioned something about training.” 

“All right,” I say confidently before I can chicken out, “show me where.”

* * *

The training grounds are located in a flattened and grassy plain, unusually devoid of trees. 

I see several elfish soldiers practicing bowmanship, though their aim seems to be perfect. I hope I can find Faramir soon, elves are intimidating enough without being armed and lethal.

I have to walk around for a bit before I spot him by the corner, cleaning off his sword. He’s obviously just finishing up with training, I can see the traces of mud and sweat that mar his usually perfectly kept Gondorian uniform. 

I clear my throat and he looks up, tensing immediately.

“Relax, I’m not going to attack you or anything.” 

He doesn’t seem too amused, and turns back to polishing his blade, “I’m glad to see you are in better humor Lady Jude, how may I be of service”? 

The stiff politeness is back I see. 

“I’m sorry,” the words are plain but it’s the best I can do. 

He looks up again at this, “I don’t understand you Lady Jude.” 

“I know, I really thought—well it doesn’t matter,” there’s no way I can even begin to explain this one. 

“Perhaps you might start with being truthful, do you think so little of me that I would not understand or accept whatever you have to say”?

My throat closes, this is harder than I thought it would be. “I don’t think little of you at all, that’s why I’m afraid to tell you the truth,” I swallow before forcing myself to continue, “I have dreamed of dying, of that thing killing me since as long as I can remember. I thought that down there in those caves, that I had to die to save Gandalf, to save you all.”

He stares at me, but I see no judgement or fear in his eyes. “You would have accepted that fate in Gandalf’s place”?

I simply nod. 

He shakes his head, “you are braver than any man I’ve met.”

“Thank you”? I’m not sure if it’s a compliment or not. 

He laughs at my trepidation before growing somber again, “I know you hate me for it but I don’t regret stopping you.” 

“No,” I shake my head quickly, “I don’t hate you for it, I only ever hated myself but I think I’m over that now.”

“Well, I’m glad then.”

I sigh, finally able to relax, “me too.” 

We look at each other for a moment, I’m glad we can be friends again without the awkward strain of Moria hanging over us. 

He stands up suddenly, breaking the spell, “well, I suppose if you are to make any more noble sacrifices you should be trained.” 

I blink at him, feigning astonishment, “was that a joke? I thought you weren’t one for joking,” I tease. 

He rolls his eyes, “we’ll see if you still have that sense of humor by the time we’re finished.”

* * *

I am dusty and covered in sweat by the time we are finished, but proud of myself. Though I am not athletic, it appears that I can, in fact, hold a sword. 

Faramir informs me I won’t be battling any Uruk-hai soon but I could perhaps tackle a half-wit squire with my skill. 

“God, I can’t remember being this filthy,” I exclaim as we head back to the campsite. It’s true, I haven’t had a bath since god knows when. I eye the stream that runs along the field, I am getting desperate. 

“Perhaps for all our sakes you will avail yourself upon that water.” 

I glare, I’m not sure I like this new “funny” version of Faramir. 

“You could use a bath as well,” I remind him, pretending to be disgusted. 

He shakes his head, “remember I could easily throw you in, I would choose my words more carefully Lady Jude.” 

I stare at him, “throw me in and I might use those tricks you taught me in a more practical scenario.”

He pretends to be scandalized, “and these are the words of a Lady.” 

I shake my head, trying not to smile. I can’t remember the last time I’ve joked this way with someone. Most of the people I’ve met here haven’t really shared my modern sense of humor, especially not Faramir. Is he trying to get me to like him more? I have to admit I’m a little surprised, a few days ago I thought he couldn’t care less. 

Well, if he wants to become better friends, I don’t have a problem, If I really am stuck here for the indefinite future until I find some other clues as to how to get back home, I might as well try to get to know the people I’m with.

* * *

It takes me a bit of wandering around to find another elvish woman, I don’t really want to have to ask one of the men where I could find a bath. 

I nervously walk over to a circle of singing women, their voices unnaturally beautiful and intimidating. They fall silent at my approach and look up at me expectantly.

“Umm, do any of you know where I could take a bath”? 

“Bathing”? One of them asks in broken Westron.

I not, excited.   
One of the taller women with mossy green eyes and amber hair smiles at me, “I will take you bathing if you would like, I know more Westron than my sisters.” 

Take me bathing? “Thank you,” I simply reply.

She rises from the circle, nodding to her sisters, before walking with me back into the forest. 

I’m confused, we seem to be walking away from most of the houses that I see nestled around the trees, I would have thought that any bath would be in one of them. 

Instead, we head towards a misty clearing which holds a deep pool. I can see other elvish women frolicking in the water, laughing and having animated discussion. It occurs to me that I’ve never seen elvish women look as carefree as they do at that moment.

They are also all naked. I’m not a prude, but my skin still prickles at the thought of stripping in front of all these people.

“What if someone walks in”? I ask, childishly. 

She shrugs, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth, before she undoes the ties of her gown and steps into the water. 

I chide myself, after everything I’ve faced, I think I can do this. 

I peel off my grimy shirt and pants, gingerly setting them at the edge of the water. I don’t want to think about how filthy I must look, but to their credit, none of the _elleth_ visibly react.

After dealing with my clothing, I quickly get into the water. It is soft and warm; I can feel my sore muscles beginning to relax and I let out an audible moan.

The elvish woman smiles at me, “I’m glad you decided to come in after all.”

“It’s nice,” I say, floating on my back to look up at the trees. 

“My name is Muinien.”

I flush, all this time I’ve forgotten to even introduce myself. “I’m Jude.”

She smiles, “I know, there has been much talk of you Lady Jude.” 

I glance at her, “really”? 

“Of your party, only you and Frodo were summoned to a private audience with the Lady of the Wood.”

“I’m no one important, don’t worry.” 

Muinien laughs at that, “It appears our Lady doubts that.” 

She swims closer to me and I fight the squeamish urge to inch away. “I have never seen a company such as yours; two men, four hobbits, a dwarf, an elvish prince, and an elven woman who speaks no Sindarin.” 

“It’s a bit of a long story,” I simply respond. 

“I can only imagine what matters would bring such a group to the wood of Lothlorien.”

I shake my head, there’s no way to even begin. 

She seems to sense that I am uneasy at the conversation. “Are you promised to anyone”?

I splutter at this, certainly not expecting that to be her next question. “No, I mean¬–I was once dating someone pretty seriously but we couldn’t make the long-distance work.” 

Muinien blinks at me, clearly confused. 

“I was courting with someone,” I say, trying in vain to put it words she’d understand. 

She finally nods, “your understanding was broken.”

“It’s okay, it was a few years ago, what about you”? It occurs to me that this conversation is oddly mimicking one I might have in a bar with one of my friends. 

She looks saddened, “no, though I would be blessed to find a companion.”

I take in russet beautiful hair and lithe body, “I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you,” I reply archly. 

Muinien smiles again at me, “then the talk I have heard of the Gondorian man with the _elleth_ lover is false”?

I dunk my head under the water quickly to hide my horrified reaction. How could anyone think that from one training session and a walk through the woods? I forgot how archaic medieval definitions of courting were. 

“It is most definitely wrong,” I manage. 

She seems pleased at how flustered I am, “perhaps,” she replies with a smirk. 

Am I getting teased right now?

“Believe me, we could hardly stand each other a few days ago. I would call what we have an uneasy, fledging friendship and nothing more.”

All this talk of courtship makes me feel odd. I am reminded that I could be stuck in this world for years.

I could be alone for years; I hadn’t thought of that. In this world, people don’t have things like casual relationships. 

What am I going to do? I quickly blush and then curse myself, Muinien is probably going to misinterpret the origins of that.

* * *

We spend a few hours lazily floating around the pools of water and chatting. I’ve missed having casual conversations like these. 

She tells me about her childhood in Lothlorien, the elvish guard she fancies, and her hopes to one day work in the archives. 

I am happy to mostly listen, silently. 

By the time we are finished, I climb out of the water and reluctantly step towards my pile of clothing.

Muinien quickly shakes her head at this, “I will have one of my sisters fetch you something clean to wear.” 

I want to politely refuse, but I can’t hide my relief. 

While Muinien goes to fetch a gown, I sit on one of the rocks by the lake. The feeling of the light on my skin is so peaceful, for the first time in a while, I feel completely calm and safe. 

Muinien returns with a light blue gown made of a velvety, soft material. It is so lovely that I almost want to refuse, but then I am reminded again of just how filthy my other clothing is. 

I slip it on, the cool fabric brushing gently against my now clean skin. I run my fingers through my dampened curls, working out most of the knots. By the time I’m done, I think I look halfway presentable.

* * *

I am amused by the reactions I get when I make my way back the campsite.

I must have been very filthy because everyone spares me an extra glance before Sam breaks the silence, “I’d forgotten you were a real elf Lady Jude.”   
I try not to laugh at this unintentionally backhanded compliment and sit down to join everyone for dinner.

I spare Faramir an extra glance, I can’t resist to get another barb in. “Well, now you’re the only one in need of a bath.” 

He takes me in again before quietly responding, “yes.” 

I blink, I suppose he left his witticisms back at the training ground. 

Merry passes me a bowl some stew that Sam has whipped up and the company breaks out into easy conversation.

Something odd and warm fills me at the sight of everyone, happy and enjoying their food. I think that perhaps I am happy as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,  
> I love some good fluff, so not much happens at all aside from some banter and mended fences. Let me know what you think about the dynamic so far/if you have any suggestions. I love any form of feedback really, I'm always looking to improve.
> 
> Thank you all again for reading!


	12. Nothing Beside Remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship leaves Lothlorien

We pass a few more precious days in Lothlorien. 

I can’t quite remember everything we do, these are days of rest and relaxation, a small pause before the growing storm. 

I do remember falling on my ass in that training ground more times than I care to admit, though Faramir was always quick to pull me up. 

And Muiniel, it will take me a while to forget her. After Legolas, she was one of the first elves to show me real kindness despite my oddities. 

But as surely as the sun must set behind the hills at dusk, we had to eventually leave our elven oasis to tread less kind roads.

* * *

I wake to hear the grumbling of my companions. No one is truly pleased to be quitting this place, but Aragorn rather unceremoniously announced at dinner last night that we should be packed and ready to continue our journey at dawn.

Of course, I always knew we’d have to leave eventually but some small part of me still winced at the idea of accustoming myself to the road once more. I’ve grown used to washing the sweat of a long day of training off with Muiniel, of taking leisurely meals with Merry and Pippin, and sleeping on that softened moss instead of a rocky floor. 

Oh well, if I had wanted safety and comfort I would have stayed in Rivendell. No, I know that it’s time to leave, if I stay any longer, I might not be able to go at all. 

Now the pale light of the day is filtering through the leaves of Lothlorien, and it is time to go. I roll up my meager possessions, strapping my elven blade to my side with a more confidence than I possessed before Faramir’s lessons. 

Faramir and Legolas don’t look weary, of course, they must of rose well before dawn to get dressed and prepare themselves. I sometimes wonder if Faramir would make a better elf than me, with his tidiness and polite manner. 

Aragorn shakes his head as he takes in the hobbits and I, “we’ll set a fast pace, I don’t want to contend with any more delays or losses.” 

I inwardly groan at the idea of a “fast pace,” I know, I’m an elf and have an advantage over others in that department but I still don’t love the thought of running the equivalent of a marathon.

Faramir spares me a sympathetic glance. I should really blame him, I'm still sore from yesterday's training. 

We make for the parameter of Lothlorien, where I can make out the sunrise reflected on the gleaming waters. Unsurprisingly, Galadriel is there waiting for us. 

She serenely takes in our party, “Now comes the time for our paths to cleave, though I confess my heart heavy to see you leave my shores.” 

Aragorn bows his head, ever the tactician, “we thank the Lady of the wood for extending the hospitalities of Lothlorien.”

She smiles at this, “perhaps Lothlorien might leave you with a final compliment.” Galadriel nods to the elves at her side, who produce various bound presents. 

She turns first to Frodo, “to you, ring bearer, I present the light of Earendil, our most beloved star.” There are soft murmurs from the elves around her as she removes a softly glowing vial from the velvet sac.

For the first time in days, Frodo’s look of general anguish is replaced by one of awe. I see the traces of the carefree hobbit I saw in the Old Forest, always excited to experience something new, my heart twists slightly at the change in him. Out of all of the Fellowship, Frodo seems to suffer the greatest, perhaps I should try to talk to him? 

Galadriel turns to Legolas, offering him an intricately and beautifully carved bow. 

Then to Faramir, “To the young ranger of Gondor I offer a torch of Lothlorien, may it burn truest when you are in need.” She produces a torch made of burnished iron and Faramir takes it with a bow. 

To Merry and Pippin, she gives a beautifully designed sheath for their daggers and to Sam, soil from her own garden.

Finally, Galadriel turns to me. “I wondered what to give one so rich with life and memory, so perhaps another stitch from your past will suffice, may it reflect only truth.” 

Galadriel reaches into the depths of the velvet sack and takes out an old hand mirror. It is beautiful, the silver is molded into a leafy design that curves over the faded glace. 

As I take it into my hands and feel that faint flare of recognition deep within me. Theres is an an inscription on the handle. The letters are the same curling and delicate wisps I saw inscribed on the walls of Moria. That ancient tongue that I recognized, that he must have recognized. 

I look closer and the something twists in my stomach at the words. _I am bound._

The phrase is simple but confusing, what could it mean? This is a gift of Galadriel’s and a stitch from my past, it must somehow be significant but I can’t work it out. 

I try not to be frustrated, just another riddle to add to the heap. 

Galadriel finally stops at Gimli, “and what could a Dwarf ask of an Elf”?

I swear I see a flush creep over Gimli’s cheeks, “the honor of gazing upon the Lady of the Wood for a final time is enough,” he answers. 

I try not to smile, so Gimli has a crush.

I see Gimli hesitate before hastily adding, “though I would¬¬—never mind it’s ridiculous.”

Galadriel shakes her head, “please, demand anything.” 

He steels himself before quickly pushing out the words, “I would ask but one lock of your hair.” 

I exchange a smile with Aragorn, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gimli so silver tongued and eager to please. 

Galadriel tips back her head in an elegant laugh, “it is said that the kills of the Dwarves are in their hands rather than their tongues, yet that is not true of Gimli. For none have ever made a request so bold yet so courteous.”

I am shocked to see her reach to her hair and pull out three strands, wrapping them carefully in a silk handkerchief and handing them to Gimli. He takes them with awe and carefully tucks them into his tunic. 

Galadriel raises her hands and the elves around her take out grey cloaks of fine woven thread. “A final gift of warmth and protection for the journey ahead.” 

The cloak is draped around my shoulders and secured with a beautiful pin, delicately shaped in a leaf. It is surprisingly light yet warm. 

With a final thanks, we head towards the boats bobbing in the water. A spare on last glace to the golden trees and comforts of Lothlorien before steeling myself for the road ahead, it is time to leave.

* * *

The river moves quickly and I before long I can no longer see the trees of Lothlorien. The elven oasis is firmly behind us, ahead of us lies the Mordor, and then who knows what?

The sky is bright blue, and the river rushes calmly underneath the hull of our canoes. I can make out a faint and foreign birdsong in the air, Gimili lies back lazily, lighting a pipe. “I could get used to this form of travel; we dwarves are not accustomed to walking long distances.”

Aragorn pretends to look stern, “you had better not be too used to it, we shall continue on foot soon.” 

Legolas is eyeing the sky quietly.

“Do you see something”? I ask. 

He shakes his head, still looking perturbed, “I sense a foul odor in the air.” 

The hairs on the back of my head stand at these words, I relax my immediate sensations and reach out, the way Legolas taught me. Amid the freshness of the river and the musty forest smell, I do sense something more rank. It reminds me a little of Moria, the smell of death.

Aragorn grimaces at these words, “once we pass the Pillars, we’ll make for Mordor at nightfall.” 

The Pillars? Faramir senses my confusion, “the ruins of the Argonath, once great Kings.” 

“What happened to them”? 

“Well, they never exactly disappeared,” he replies, with a pointed look towards Aragorn. 

Aragorn flushes at the mention of his noble origins, “I have long wished to see my forefathers,” he confesses. 

We pass on in contented silence, drifting slowly through a steep, rocky gorge. 

I can make out two enormous rock statues, towering over either side of the river. They rise hundreds of feet, with their hands outstretched in luminous majesty and power. 

These mighty kings, and now all that remains are their crumbling statues. 

I can’t help myself, _“my name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare. The lone and level sands stretch far away.”_

Faramir turns to me, “another ballad from your land”? 

I nod, pleased, “Percy Shelley, he was my favorite romantic poet.”

“You know a lot of these poets.” 

I star at those crumbling statues and feel homesickness for the first time in a while, sharp and sudden twist. “I was an English major in college and I fell in love with those poets. The beauty of it all, I thought that it made my world a better place, that it made sense of life.” 

I’m almost self-conscious, I didn’t mean to talk so romantically about myself but Faramir is listening. That’s something I like about him, I decide, he’s not one of those people who asks a question out of politeness and doesn’t care about response. 

There’s something almost wistful about his face. “The words they speak in Gondor are not like yours, there is something of truth in those rhymes.” 

He hesitates, before lowering his voice slightly and continuing, “my father is a noble man, a good man. But our people, they lose faith. I wonder if once this sickness passes to our lands, will all that is left be a crumbling ruin, nothing but your _colossal wreck_? 

I want to reach out to him but something in me hesitates, “Ozymandias was a vain and mean ruler, I don’t know your father but I know you, you’re a kind man and a good friend. I’m sure the legacy of Gondor will be more than simply ashes and dust.”

Faramir meets my gaze at these words and I can tell he wants to say more but the boats lurch and he turns away quickly. 

Aragorn calls over his shoulder, “we’ve reached as far as the river will take us, we’ll make camp here and wait out the day until nightfall.” 

I give Faramir an apologetic look and we quickly see to unpacking and securing the canoes.

* * *

I stare into the clouded depths of the mirror, my own face mockingly reflected. I remember Galadriel’s words, _may it only reflect truth._ But what is true about myself, I wasn’t an elf a month ago, and who knows how long ago I was someone else entirely. 

I sight and shove the mirror, and all its mysteries, back into my bag. 

Sam fusses over Frodo, trying to coax him into eating some more dinner. I can’t help but share his concern. Out of all of our party, Frodo seems to have been the one to take the death of Gandalf the hardest and still hasn’t fully recovered from it, staying mostly silent and barely eating at mealtimes. 

Aragorn and Faramir have gone off the collect firewood, Legolas is keeping watch, and Gimli seems to have smoked himself into a stupor. Right, someone needs to talk to Frodo and it looks like that will be me. 

“Frodo”?

He looks up, clearly shocked out of some deep thought. “You’re in need of something Lady Jude”? He quickly asks.

This man is far too giving, I sigh and take a seat next to him. “I don’t like seeing you this way.”

Frodo stiffens at these words, “the ring is a burden, but it is my burden to bear.”

I smile, trying to pacify him, “I know, and it is not a burden I would seek to take from you.”

He looks at my deeply, for the first time in days, “you have your own burdens, yes I can see that now.” 

The last part of his sentence is barely more than a murmur, more to himself than to me. 

“You don’t have to be alone, that’s what I’m trying to say. I understand you feel alienated, I’ve felt that as well. But we’re here to help you.”

His eyes grow distant again, “sometimes I believe that this should be my burden alone, that you all should not be dragged to whatever end I must face.”

I place hand on his arm, “we all volunteered with you Frodo, we’ll follow you anywhere.” 

“I know, that is what I’m afraid of Lady Jude.” 

“If you ever wish to talk about what's troubling you, I'm here,” it is all I can really offer. 

Frodo nods but I can see he’s retreated back to his thoughts. 

I am content to sit silently by his side. My own thoughts begin to drift to my family. I wonder if they know I’m gone, if I’ve left some crumbling wreckage in my wake like Ozymandias or if I have truly disappeared, like smoke into air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew,  
> Alright I'm sorry in advance for another slow chapter where not much happens but the next one is going to be very long and pretty intense so be prepared. "Ozymandias" is a great poem and amazing read, definitely not my own work. As usual, let me know what you think/if you have any suggestions.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	13. To Whatever End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude and the Fellowship have an unfortunate run-in.

We are circled about the fire eating our supper together. It is nearing true night, though I can still see the vestiges of daylight disappearing behind the tree line. Part of me foolishly wishes that the sunlight would remain for a bit longer, because once night comes, I know that our journey will continue. 

I turn my attention back the stew Sam prepared for me, probably my last hot meal in a while. It’s actually quite good, better than the usual hotdogs and sandwiches I’m used to eating around a campfire. 

I can’t help but smile to think of what old me would say about my situation. I always hated camping, the lack of showers, the bugs, and the hard, earthen floor. 

But now, I’ve been camping for months, I’ve learned to fall asleep the second I lay out on the ground, no matter how bumpy it is. There are bugs here as well, but I know to cover myself fully to avoid their sting, and I’ve grown more than used to weeks without showering. 

“What are you thinking of Lady Jude”? Sam politely asks, breaking the silence. 

I’m not even sure how to explain, “I’m thinking that its odd to be camping for so long, I get used to things I didn’t think I would. In my land people go for short holidays in the forest but usually only stay a few days.” 

Pippin raises his eyebrows, “are people in your land queer folk? I would not choose a bed of pine nettles willingly.”

Merry can’t resist getting a barb in, “you slumber late enough to make us all think you sleep upon the finest goose feather mattress.” 

Pippin scowls, but I see the mirth in his eyes. 

“Where I live there aren’t many trees,” I try to explain, “so sometimes we like to go to the forest to see them again.” 

“And what do your poets say of that I wonder”? Faramir speaks in a warm tone, his melancholy from the boat seems to have disappeared somewhat. 

I poke him in the arm, trying not to flush at the teasing, “most of the poets live in the cities I speak of, so they can’t scold much.”

Legolas seems scandalized at that, “I cannot imagine elvish verse constructed in a great city.” 

Gimli rolls his eyes, “well we’re all lucky the lass hasn’t taken to quoting elvish verse, saccharine nonsense.” 

Aragorn sits back, doing a good impression of beleaguered parent watching their children squabble.

* * *

_A city in flames, a city in panic. People stream from their houses, clutching what meager possessions they can salvage. Children cry in the street for their mothers, fathers grab what weapons they have and make for the walls. I am looking, desperately looking for her, for any the guard. It is useless in the chaos._

_I remember the words, I am bound. An oath sworn so long ago, yet still true in my heart. I must go, I must make for those walls and face what I will. To whatever end._

I am shaken awake from my nap and I come to my senses with a start. 

“Frodo has been gone for an hour now, Aragorn and Legolas are off gathering supplies for the journey and Lord Faramir is with Merry and Pippin in the woods.” Sam’s panicked eyes bore into mine urgently, 

“Frodo is gone”? I can’t believe Sam would let him out of his sight. 

“I drifted off,” he admits sheepishly, “for just a minute mind you and when I awoke, he was nowhere to be found, please Lady Jude.” 

“Right, I’ll look around, I’m sure he can’t be far.” I try to look reassuring for Sam, who looks as if he’s near to breaking. 

The woods are dark, and deep. Frodo could really be anywhere and panic begins to arise in me at the thought that he could remain missing any longer. 

But hobbit legs are short, he can’t have gotten that far. He’s certainly out of hobbit and human earshot, but perhaps not elvish. I take in a breath and close my eyes, first blocking the sound of the birds and the air between the leaves. 

I ignore the scuffling of animals, far too small to be Frodo. I strain, beginning to despair until I can hear the panicked intake of breath, the hastily scuffle of bear feet over rock. 

He’s to my left, I take off running in the direction. 

It isn’t long until I find Frodo, alone in a clearing pacing about. He has walked enough to put a slight distance between himself and the company, but has paused to deliberate. 

“Frodo,” I call, and he immediately jumps and whips around at the name. 

I carefully and deliberating walk towards him, trying to look friendly and calm. He doesn’t look good, his eyes are wide and glassy, like that of a wild animal. 

“None of us should be out here alone, you least of all.” 

Frodo simply stares at me, tense and cautious. 

“Look, I know why you want to be alone right now, you’ve been struggling for a while and I want to help, I really do, but first we should head back to the campsite, Sam is anxious.” 

Frodo shakes his head rapidly, “no, not Sam.” The words are hoarse, frightened. 

I take another step closer, “what are you afraid of”? 

His hand tightens around the band hanging from his neck, “not Sam, no more will die for my burden.”

Of course, he blames himself for Gandalf’s death. It has been eating him away since Lothlorien and I’ve been too self-absorbed to see. 

I silently curse myself, “that wasn’t your fault Frodo, Gandalf knew the dangers when he agreed to journey with you, we all did.” 

Frodo lets out a shaky breath, “you don’t understand, none of you truly understand.”

I lay a gentle hand on his arm, “then help me understand.” 

His eyes meet mine, full of sadness, “Galadriel’s mirror, I saw so many dead. I saw you dead Jude, on some great battlefield.”

His words hit with a blow. I take a moment before finding my own again, “not everything we see will necessarily come to pass, Galadriel told me that herself.”

“I know, that is why I must go alone.” His voice holds the most strength and surety I’ve heard from him in weeks. 

I hesitate for a moment, I know Gandalf would have wanted me to listen to Frodo, to the ringbearer. Perhaps this is his choice to make. 

“It is large burden to carry alone,” I manage.

His gaze meets mine, “I know.” 

I let out a weak laugh, “I find myself always astonished by the resilience of hobbits.” 

Frodo manages a smile at this, “look after Sam for me, he won’t understand.” 

I am about to nod when I hear a muted, far off cry from the distance. The hairs on the back of my neck stand and that horrible, sickening feeling washes over me. It hasn’t been this strong since Moria. 

The nausea is so intense I almost double over, something is deeply wrong. 

I turn to Frodo, the blade at his side glows a pale blue. His eyes follow mine and widen once he sees. 

“Go Frodo, run”! 

He raises off through the trees ahead, and I turn to face my nightmares.

* * *

I can hear them first, footsteps thundering so loudly that I wondered how I couldn’t detect them before. All my elven senses had been so focused on finding Frodo that I couldn’t see what was right in front of my nose, I would laugh at the irony were my life not in imminent danger. 

Next is the smell, it washes over me almost blinding my other senses, that dank scent of death that had clung to the walls of Moria. 

I had thought that the smell would be the worst of it, but the sight makes my body quiver and my mouth dry. 

I see them burst through the tree line, precious moments after Frodo ran towards the river in the opposite direction. 

The Goblins of Moria had been hideous and horrible, yet almost spiderlike. I could rationalize my fears away, pretend that they were any other ugly creature that had existed in my world.

But these things, they are hatred personified, yet human-like. I remember Gandalf’s words about Orcs, that they were once elven, once the way that I am now. 

I can see the vestiges of those origins in their round faces and pointed ears. They are similar enough to startle me, this is the first time that I’ve faced an opponent like that. 

There’s at least two hundred of them streaming through the woods now, any second and they’ll reach me. I’ve seen them before, in my dreams of Boromir, I know that there’s no way I’m equipped to fight these things. 

But Frodo has just seconds to get away, to carry the ring far from the Orcs and any moment I can steal for him counts. I have to at least try to stall them, to keep the other hobbits safe. It surprises me how quickly I make that decision; with a sudden painful jolt I realize just how attached I’ve grown to everyone. 

I withdraw the elven blade that hangs from my side with ease, I’ve practiced long enough with Faramir to know how to do that well, the rest will be more difficult.  
The leader of the Orc company pauses, sighting me. His nostrils flare and a triumphant smile twists upon his face, he knows that I will be easy prey.

I back into my fighting stance. _Remember balance, confidence, and precision_ , Faramir’s words echo in my ears. 

With a roar, the leader lets raises his hand in an arc and Orcs stream down the hill toward me, an excited glint in their eyes. 

I grip my sword tighter, preparing for the worst. 

To my shock, a blurry shape leaps in front of me, clashing swords with nearest one before it can reach me. 

_Aragorn._

I let out a groan of relief, death was staring me in the face just seconds ago. 

Aragorn moves with precision, slicing and twisting away from its wicked blade. The Orc is good, more skilled than Gandalf has led me to believe they would be but Aragorn is far better. With a grunt, he ducks away from the Orc’s blade and quickly sticks his own deep into its gut. 

I know it’s not an elf, not anymore, but its eyes reveal the same shock and anger that I might see on my own face. 

Aragorn turns to me, black blood now coating his clothing. “Get the hell away from here and hide”!

He turns back to the fray, cutting and dodging. There’s just too many. I shake my head, “I’m not leaving you here.” 

“You will leave Lady Jude and you will leave now; this fight is not for you. Fear not, I have no plans to die today.” 

There’s odd surety in his voice, and I remember the man I saw stand down a Ringwraith without hesitation.

Everything in me screams at going, at leaving Aragorn to face this alone, but I something in me acknowledges that I couldn’t help anyway. 

I turn a flee through the forest, weaving around the trees. I am aware of the sinking of the crossbow arrows, but mercifully, none of them hit. 

I am also aware of the feet thundering behind me, some of them are in pursuit. Part of me is almost grateful, at least I’ve pulled some of Aragorn’s foe away. 

My feet fly over the roots and trees, as I summon all of my elven dexterity, drawing my pursuers in a direction I hope none of the hobbits are near.

* * *

They are panting, growing angry now. Their prey is proving more trouble than they intended, if they catch me, I know they will be vicious. 

I reach another clearing, a break in the thick trees. My heart sinks, part of the reason why their arrows couldn’t catch me were those thick branches, now I have no cover. 

My quick feet have gained me a few minutes, but after that I’m not sure what I can do. 

I soon see I have greater problems than that. Standing in the clearing are two more Orcs, they’ve split their party to ambush us from all directions. 

The bigger of the two turns from whatever he’s looking at to smile at my arrival. His voice is grating and harsh, like the turning of a rusty gear. 

“Looks like we’ve got company.”

The wind is knocked from me when I see who he’s talking to, Faramir. 

He’s kneeling on the ground, one of the Orcs has pulled his head up harshly so he can see me. There’s blood dripping from a cut somewhere, it slides thickly down the side of his head.

My heart twists at the sight, I feel as if my chest has become so tight, I can’t breathe.

Not Faramir, god not him. Have I saved one brother just to doom another?

Faramir’s face looks ashen as he takes me in. I feel the weight of our despair locking into one another in just a glance. He lets out a low moan and the Orc near him shoves him back to the ground. 

The thing in my twists and screams. It is pounding at the wall, at the divide between us. Asking a question that I don’t want the answer to. 

The Orc sneers at Faramir. “Silence, filth. You can watch as we dispense of the she-elf, then you.” 

The Orc raises his fist to smack Faramir yet again and something in me breaks. 

It is the only way I can describe it. That small wall I had built to separate myself from the feelings, from the desires of whatever is trapped within me, collapses. 

I feel true rage for the first time in my life. It courses through my body, hot and heavy. I’ve never hated anything with such passion. 

The words I speak are guttural and low, far harsher and confident than my normal voice sounds, “you will die for that.” 

At this, I see something akin to fear flicker in the Orc’s eyes for a moment before it laughs. 

The thing in me twists and beckons, letting out a tentative tendril. 

Yes. I silently tell it, do what you will, just let me save him. 

My body shudders and I feel myself retreat into some smaller part of my mind, now I am but a spectator. 

The smaller and meaner Orc rushes towards me, swinging a thick and rusty sword. 

I feel my body react with a speed I never had, pulling my sword out with the ease and confidence of a true warrior. 

It is not me that swings out of the way with a smirk, that knows when to duck and when to strike. Yet I feel my myself going through those motions, driven by that force within me that I had never allowed to take control until now. 

The Orc’s eyes widen, he sees that I am a foe of far greater skill. My old self, Jude, sends out a flicker of hesitation, but I am not in charge anymore. It is simply rage, rage and something else, almost enjoyment, that sends the Orc’s head flying from its neck in foul swoop of my blade. 

I should not have the strength to do that, yet I do. 

The thing in me laughs at the Orc’s surprised expression, now permanently trapped on its features, as I turn to my next victim. 

This one is larger, and lands a punch before I can react properly. Blood flows from my nose and I feel anger blanket me once more, it will pay for that.

I meet my blade against its own, cruder steel. Triumph flashes in its eyes, it thinks its greater strength will give it victory.

I let it have that triumph for a moment, before I bring up my knee with us much painful speed as I can muster, jamming into its breastplate. 

This new me doesn’t play fair. 

It’s caught off its guard for a crucial moment, and I twist my sword around, disarming the Orc. 

It opens its mouth, perhaps preparing to make some plea. I don’t give it the time to speak, driving my sword deep into his gut until its face is mere inches from my own. 

I nonchalantly kick the body over to the ground. 

The clearing is now a bloody mess, and I can feel the hot, sticky remnants of those Orcs painted over my own body.

It’s over. 

_It’s over_. I silently scream to that animal that controls me. For a moment, I feel true panic cloud over the triumphant emotions its feeling. What if I can’t take back control?

Finally, the tendrils of whatever it is reluctantly relax, pulling back from my mind.

My body shakes and I fall to the ground, pulling in breath after breath.

I hear the leaves crackle, Faramir has slowly dragged himself to me. 

I meet his gaze, unable yet to summon words. I wait for his horror, for his disgust, for his questions as to what exactly just happened.

Instead, I feel his arms curl around me, tight and desperate. 

We sit in silence, cradling each other. 

Release washes through my body and I feel myself begin to shake with sobs. 

I am not sure how long I would have remained there, against sanity and reason. But my ears prick as I hear more footsteps, my pursuers have finally caught up to me.

Dread collects in my stomach, Faramir is probably concussed and I know I cannot surrender to that thing again, I know I wouldn’t survive it if I did. 

I pull away from him and rise, shakily to my feet. 

I think I hear Faramir say something but I am not sure.

I stumble backwards slightly, feeling the force of the arrow before the pain.

But the pain does come, in hot waves over my side. 

I fall to my knees, my shoulder jerking back as another strikes.

It is agony, pure agony. My throat is hoarse and dry but I scream again and again.

Through the blinding pain, a beautiful calmness reaches out, darkness at the edges of my vision.

I don’t want to give in, I want to fight it but I am so tired, and it hurts so much.

I think I see someone, something jump at the Orcs but I can’t be sure, my body sways and I am gone.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,  
> That one was a little intense to write, especially because some things are understandably different. Let me know if you like where I took things/if you have any constructive feedback.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude has some revelations while the Fellowship decides what to do next.

_The Orcs stream through the city, tearing and ripping apart the markets, the houses, the very stones that make up the walls._

_It is impossible that so many should be here, an impossible treachery that will be answered for in time. The might Gondolin, brought to its knees with such disgrace._

_I can see my brothers, of other noble Houses fighting valiantly, foolishly, against the insurmountable onslaught. The warriors of the White Wing, surrounding Tour as he cuts and slashes his way through the Great Market._

_In the carnage, my heart leaps to see a familiar flash of dark hair. He stands a slaghter of Orcs, pausing to wipe dark blood from his white brow._

_“So, you fight still brother”?_

_A smile breaks his mask of concentration, “the House of Thilm Galdon will fight till none are standing.”_

_I want to talk more, to make some jab about how he’s not carrying his flute, but another wave of Orcs rush through. We cannot hold them for much longer, the once Great Market of Gondolin will fall._

_“We cannot hold it, we must make for the Square,” I call above the screams and chaos of the siege._

_He nods grimly, “shall we go together then? To whatever end.”_

_Yes, to whatever end. It is odd that in that moment I should think of the mirror, of those words, I am bound._

_We leave the slaughter of the Market and make for the Square. I feel a terrible fire in my blood at the sight of my city, under the sword of Morgorth. Everywhere people flee and beauty is put to ruin._

_The Square is in as much disarray as the rest of the city. Not simply Orcs, but ancient beasts of great power meet us there. I feel fear clutch at me, for the first time in centuries._

_It happens quickly, the death. First my friend, my brother in arms Ecthelion, slain after facing three Balrogs. His red blood stains the white floors of Gondolin. Then, it is my Lord King Turgon. After that, I stop noticing the friends I lose, they are countless._

_As hour after hour slides away, I begin to wonder why I still stand to face this horrible evil when so many better than I have fallen. The realization comes to be, sudden and sharp. I see the families, the children around me, frightened and confused. There is still a chance, however slim, of survival for some._

_Irdil’s Secret Way, hidden from those of impure hearts and guarded to memory. One last hope for the Gondolindrim. I raise my voice among the screams of fear, praying to the Valar for Ecthelion’s persuasion and volume._

_Mercifully, they follow. Cirith Thoronath is a narrow, rocky pass through the cliffs. My men hold off the orcs that would follow us, but should any beast of greater renown come upon our party, I would shudder to think of what could happen._

_We make for the pass in terrible silence, the scuffing of our footsteps echoing off the rock. For several moments, I think perhaps we have managed to escape._

_But then I see it, it rises from the side of the cliff, great and terrible. The Balrog’s whip snaps and I hear the screams of the Gondolindrim behind me._

_I think of the destroyed city below and anger clenches within me, the forces of Morgoth will take no more. I take one, fleeting moment to think of the mirror, to think of her, before plunging towards the Balrog._

_Around me, I am aware of the last of the Gondolindrim fleeing up the pass, to safety. I turn once, look back just once to see them leave, before facing my ruin._

_It strickes at me furiously, a flash of teeth and claws. I summon my centuries of training, the skill that is in my blood, to face it._

_We struggle for some time; it is an equal battle of strength and wits. Eventually, I duck from the whip and it hesitates too long, I react quickly, plunging my own sword viciously into its underbelly._

_It lets out a bone-shaking roar, before falling backwards over the edge. Relief courses through my body, I had thought this to be the end._

_I turn, much too soon, to join my people. I do not make sure that it has truly fallen. That is my downfall._

_I feel it’s great, armored fingers, grip my long hair and with a great pull, I am falling as well. I fall through darkness, through time._

_At the end, I am vaguely aware of myself being lifted, higher and higher than I have ever been. But this must be death, surely, for what could exist beyond life?_

* * *

“She dreams.” 

Faramir turns to Aragorn, only vaguely aware of his words. He has been watching Jude without rest, without reason. She lies on the bedroll, her eyes frantically moving beneath their lids.   
Aragorn seems to sense his worry, “she is far stronger than she looks lord Faramir, I doubt a few arrows will be her end.” 

“I have failed her and the halflings,” his voice breaks slightly but he forces himself to continue, “the Uruk-hai has taken them and she has been stricken down, saving me.” 

Aragorn puts a hand on the young Ranger’s shoulder, “do not let guilt cripple you from action, you may yet have another chance to show your worth. I will not leave Merry and Pippin to a fate worse than death and yet Lady Jude is much too injured to hunt Uruk-hai.” 

Faramir meets his gaze, realization setting in, “so that is? The Fellowship is well and truly broken.” 

Aragorn sighs, “it must be broken, but we will meet again. Ride for Rohan and seek aid, there we will find you should our search be successful.” 

Gimli lets out a grin at this, “what are waiting for? Let us hunt some Orc then”! 

Legolas nods, looking equally determined if not a little less bloodthirsty.

Jude lies motionless, her breath hitching at some invisible foe. Something in Faramir itches to reach out, to comfort her in some way, but a strange fear grips him. 

Seeing her struggle in silence, an odd resolve suddenly rushes through his blood. She _will_ not die, just as she had saved him, we would save her. 

There are no great halls or kings to hear Lord Faramir swear his silent oath, but leaves seem to still at the words that ring through his head. _To whatever end, I am bound to her fate._

* * *

End of Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew,  
> Alright that took me a while to get out even though its really short. So this is the end of part one and as of right now I plan to start releasing part two in a few weeks after I plan some chapters and iron out a few details. Please let me know if you'd be interested in hearing more or how I could improve the fic. Part 2 will show up on my page under a different title but it will be categorized as a part of the "Lost Souls Trilogy."
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


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